Sometimes in my conversations with people the subject comes around to woods. I'll ask them if they had woods to play in when they grew up. Those who didn't grow up with woods will give me a blank look, or they'll tell me they had a large back yard. Yet those who grew up with woods will get that far-away look in their eyes.
I'm one of those who gets that far-away look in my eyes. I grew up with woods. As a child in the northern part of Washington State, we lived in Bellingham, on the South side of town, between an area called Fairhaven and a scenic road by the name of Chuckanut Drive.
Across from our house were miles of untouched woods. I guess I date myself by saying, "in those days". But it's a true statement. In those days we kids could wander the woods all day safely, never running into or worrying about derelict individuals nor coming to the end of the woods. The woods went on forever and they were all ours.
The neighbor boys (the Osborn Boys), my brother, and I were best of friends and we ran the woods. We never walked. We ran at a jog which we could keep up all day long.
Directly across from our house was what we called the Rain Fort. Named for the huge, mammoth, Fir Tree that covered the ground beneath it. It was a place where we could play on rainy days and not get wet. What we did on those days was grab tools from our father's garages and take them over to the Rain Fort. There we'd hammer whatever could be hammered and saw whatever could be sawed. However, we tended to forget to bring the tools back home when we called it a day. Many tools were lost to the Rain Fort and surrounding woods.
The volcanic activity of centuries ago had left a pile of rocks on the top of an incline in the woods. We called this Mount Baker. Although it wasn't the real Mount Baker, visible from these rocks, in our childhood minds it represented a mountain with rocks and adventures to spare. There were fossils all over the rocks and in the summer, the small sweet wild blackberries in the meadows around (our) Mount Baker as well as sleeping deer and their babies which we'd awake on our early morning adventures. We took it all for granted, it was part of our daily world.
I recall going up to Mount Baker and then heading South across the rise of trails that gave me a view of Bellingham Bay on one side and as far as my eye could travel, Fir Trees, on the other. I knew the trails and which one to take. My journey would eventually take me back hours later to the Rain Fort. It was a sight to behold, even for a seven year old.
The Fir Trees were there for shade in the summer and protection in the winter. But they were also there to climb. We climbed them without any thought of consequence, the Osborn Boys and my little brother in their own trees next to the one I was in. We'd each chose a tree, climb to the very top, a distance that put us way above the world. With the wind rocking us back and forth, we'd sit up there for hours.
I still picture looking over at my brother and the Osborn boys, all of us swaying on the top of our Fir Trees. Some inclination told us that when we came upon the new growth on the very tops of these tall trees, it was the place to stop climbing. We never discussed this decision, it came naturally to all of us.
Should one of us have fallen, it would have ended our childhood lives. But never did we slip or lose our grip. We came home each evening covered in fragrant pitch, to be stuck in the tub, eat our dinner, go to sleep, get up and do it all over again. I'm sure our Moms knew we climbed trees but I'm not sure they realized how high we went.
I lived this wonderful adventure for the first eight years of my life. But when I turned nine changes came. The Osborn Boys left us, relocating to Boise, Idaho. Running the woods wasn't such fun without them to share the day. At age ten I was now interested in hanging out with my best friends and by age eleven I was madly in love with Herman of Herman's Hermits.
As I've learned through life, when you live in a beautiful place long enough, you start to take it for granted. That's what my brother and I did with the woods. They were there across the road from our house but as we got older, they became plain old woods. The secrets of the trails and adventures we'd had were left behind.
When I turned twelve my family moved to the outskirts of North Seattle. This wasn't a move any of us in the family were happy about. Bellingham was our home, it was where our family and friends lived and none of us wanted to go. But work called my Dad to Seattle so move we did, with an enticement from our parents that our new home had "woods".
Once were relocated and unpacked, my brother and I ventured out to explore our new woods. What we found was a smelly swampy area with a few cottonwood trees. Nothing one could climb up into and sit in for hours, swaying with the wind. No rocks with a view of Mount Baker, no sweet small blackberries for when we were hungry.
You could hear the sound of traffic in the distance but what really hit us was the definite beginning and ending to these "woods". As quickly as we came into them, we could see neighbor houses in the distance. This realization left us both with heavy hearts. These weren't "woods"! We missed our former woods, the woods we'd taken for granted as we grew older, the woods we hadn't even thought of saying farewell to before we moved.
As we grew up we returned when we could to our old home to find the woods we ran in were no longer there, replaced by new roads and houses. Our Mount Baker, developed into a huge estate, hosting a private property sign, with a closed gate which kept out "visitors"' like my brother and I, who knew the woods for what they'd been, not what they now were. Our woods were gone, just like our childhood. All we had left were the memories.
A few years ago I lost my little brother to Leukemia. During his last days with us we were visited by our old friends, the Osborn Boys. One of the things we talked about was the woods. I know it meant as much to my brother as it did to me to find that they, like us, had never forgotten those woods and the wonderful world it provided us. Even though they'd moved to Boise, Idaho, one of the biggest things they said they had missed were the woods. Talking with them, we could feel ourselves once again jogging on those trails and swaying on the tops of the trees.
The woods taught us to never take for granted the beauty of what you have in front of you. It taught us respect the way we found it and do our best to leave it that way when we leave. And most of all, it taught us to stop and say goodbye if you must leave.
We who ran the woods and swayed in tall trees will always remember this. We'll carry it in our hearts until, like the woods, we're no longer here.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Sorting Cows, Round Two
I haven't written about Round One. Didn't go so well. Champ, the horse that's been to a million shows and is always cool as a cucumber had, for better words, issues. I truly risked my life from the moment he came off the trailer, trying to saddle him while he fish-tailed back and forth against the trailer.
My agony didn't stop there. When my trainer, Rachel, drove up to warm Champ up and found us in this uncontrollable dilemma, she asked me to fetch my ground work tools. Well...I'd left them back at the barn. Thinking there was no way they'd be needed for an event such as this. WRONG!
I got to witness the difference of working a horse without ground work tools vs working one with. It took longer without and I don't think we 'locked' in Champ's focus, as with the rope halter and lunge line. Yet Rachel carried on and rode him and eventually we went up the hill and down the road to where the sorting was taking place.
Ironically, Champ's exposure to cows wasn't half as bad as his behavior at the trailer. He was curious, a bit concerned when there were vocal teams in the pen working cows, but he held his own pretty well. By his third time in, you could see he enjoyed pushing the cows into the other pen.
I watched this event, letting Rachel ride him and get him exposed. We return this Thursday, weather permitting.
Lessons learned? (1) Take my ground work tools! (2) Check with my riding pal, Kyle, who hauled us to the event, to ensure her horse is no longer in heat; (3) Work Champ before we leave to settle him down.
Any other ideas would be appreciated!
My agony didn't stop there. When my trainer, Rachel, drove up to warm Champ up and found us in this uncontrollable dilemma, she asked me to fetch my ground work tools. Well...I'd left them back at the barn. Thinking there was no way they'd be needed for an event such as this. WRONG!
I got to witness the difference of working a horse without ground work tools vs working one with. It took longer without and I don't think we 'locked' in Champ's focus, as with the rope halter and lunge line. Yet Rachel carried on and rode him and eventually we went up the hill and down the road to where the sorting was taking place.
Ironically, Champ's exposure to cows wasn't half as bad as his behavior at the trailer. He was curious, a bit concerned when there were vocal teams in the pen working cows, but he held his own pretty well. By his third time in, you could see he enjoyed pushing the cows into the other pen.
I watched this event, letting Rachel ride him and get him exposed. We return this Thursday, weather permitting.
Lessons learned? (1) Take my ground work tools! (2) Check with my riding pal, Kyle, who hauled us to the event, to ensure her horse is no longer in heat; (3) Work Champ before we leave to settle him down.
Any other ideas would be appreciated!
Saturday, May 15, 2010
An Early Morning Adventure
My husband likes to be up early. He likes to go out with our dog at the break of dawn, feed the horses, commune with nature, etc.
Last week he had a pre-work morning meeting which brought him out to the barn to feed earlier than usual. I was restless, listening to him get up in the dark and head out the door. A few minutes later I heard him barreling down the hallway towards our bedroom and I knew something was wrong.
He asked me if I'd moved our horses to a different pasture the previous evening. From the depths of my pillow came, "Noooo, they were in the winter pasture last night".
He informed me no horses had shown up for breakfast. Investigating their absence, he spotted two shadows way out in the summer pasture, pigging out on the rich, green grass, so high in sugar this time of year that we keep them away from it. Our horses had found a way into where they shouldn't be.
My now half-awake response was, "They must have opened the gate and gotten in." Followed by a yawning of, "But there's a hot wire across the gate. I just checked the signal last night and it was strong." Followed by a wide awake, "Do you think someone was out there last night, took the hot wire down and opened the gate?"
This situation hadn't been part of my husband's early morning routine and he was now running behind schedule. He told me when I got up I'd need to bring the horses in and figure out what happened.
When I got up? Ha! I was now up and any idea of sleep was long past. Clambering out of bed, pulling on sweats, barn boots and a camo duck hunting jacket that has hung in our garage for over ten years, I grabbed our dog, Hank, and we headed out to catch two displaced horses and figure out the mystery.
One step out the garage door and I smelled Skunk. It was so close that my eyes watered and I swear I could taste it. Hank ran past me, charging into the bushes next to the house...just what I didn't need.
I yelled for Hank to come back, yet not sure if I was going to want him back. He came out of the bushes back peddling towards me where I still stood at the door. I, in turn, back peddled into the garage, not knowing if he'd been sprayed and already wondering what in the heck was the name of the stuff my sister-in-law suggested we use if Hank ever encountered a Skunk.
The smell of Skunk was so strong I couldn't tell if he'd been sprayed or not. I had to bend down to smell Hank to get the verdict. Hank in turn happily gave me a big lick on my face. I was relieved to find no Skunk smell, only dog breath and Hank smell.
Leaving Hank unhappily in the house, I headed back out to capture our renegade horses. The Skunk smell was fading as quickly as the dark. In the early light I saw two horses where they shouldn't be.
Grabbing a lead rope, I headed into the pasture towards Gus, closest to the gate. He was a good sport, although a bit spooky, unusual for him but which I attributed to the fading smells of Skunk. Thinking I was taking him to his stall for grain, I played right along. Once he was inside I gave him the bad news of sliding the door shut without grain and headed out for Sunny, our older horse.
Sunny was way out across a low area in the pasture where water gathers in the spring and produces the most lovely frog sounds at night. Walking through the "frog area" was going to be a problem for me, so I pleaded with Sunny to come to me. No dummy, Sunny paid no attention. It was obvious that all he cared about was his fine morning meal and not the lady in the camo jacket and sweats begging him to leave it for her.
So the lady in the camo jacket had to go to Sunny, through the freezing cold pond water, which went up and over her barn boots and above her knees, while she thought about all the frogs lives she was impacting and odd tickles inside her boots, which she didn't want to think about at all.
Once Sunny was in the stall next to Gus, I investigated how they'd gotten out. A big Belgian must have decided to rub his rear against the gate, pushing the gate latch through the wood that holds it, snapping the hot wire, which must have been quite a surprise to encounter (now I know why Gus was spooky.) I repaired the wire, closed the gate, turned the hot wire back on and put the horses back where they belonged.
As I slogged to the house with wild-women night time hair, smeared eye make-up, drenched sweat pants up past my knees covered in green slime, frog eggs and who knows what else oozing around and between my frozen toes, my husband pulled out of the garage, all dressed up and heading to work.
He drove over to get an update on my early morning adventure. As I leaned on his truck and emptied my boots of frogs, slime and water, I saw a little smile cross his face. But he's a smart man, he didn't say another word. Instead he quietly headed off to work.
That evening he told me he'd shared at his early morning meeting how I'd gotten up and went out to get the horses, fixed the hot wire and gate. He made it sound like I was the Cowgirl I've always wanted to be and that made me feel pretty good.
Our horses weren't any worse for wear from their early morning adventure and with one exception all was well. The exception? Well, the sound of frogs at night has been pretty sparse since that event. :)
Last week he had a pre-work morning meeting which brought him out to the barn to feed earlier than usual. I was restless, listening to him get up in the dark and head out the door. A few minutes later I heard him barreling down the hallway towards our bedroom and I knew something was wrong.
He asked me if I'd moved our horses to a different pasture the previous evening. From the depths of my pillow came, "Noooo, they were in the winter pasture last night".
He informed me no horses had shown up for breakfast. Investigating their absence, he spotted two shadows way out in the summer pasture, pigging out on the rich, green grass, so high in sugar this time of year that we keep them away from it. Our horses had found a way into where they shouldn't be.
My now half-awake response was, "They must have opened the gate and gotten in." Followed by a yawning of, "But there's a hot wire across the gate. I just checked the signal last night and it was strong." Followed by a wide awake, "Do you think someone was out there last night, took the hot wire down and opened the gate?"
This situation hadn't been part of my husband's early morning routine and he was now running behind schedule. He told me when I got up I'd need to bring the horses in and figure out what happened.
When I got up? Ha! I was now up and any idea of sleep was long past. Clambering out of bed, pulling on sweats, barn boots and a camo duck hunting jacket that has hung in our garage for over ten years, I grabbed our dog, Hank, and we headed out to catch two displaced horses and figure out the mystery.
One step out the garage door and I smelled Skunk. It was so close that my eyes watered and I swear I could taste it. Hank ran past me, charging into the bushes next to the house...just what I didn't need.
I yelled for Hank to come back, yet not sure if I was going to want him back. He came out of the bushes back peddling towards me where I still stood at the door. I, in turn, back peddled into the garage, not knowing if he'd been sprayed and already wondering what in the heck was the name of the stuff my sister-in-law suggested we use if Hank ever encountered a Skunk.
The smell of Skunk was so strong I couldn't tell if he'd been sprayed or not. I had to bend down to smell Hank to get the verdict. Hank in turn happily gave me a big lick on my face. I was relieved to find no Skunk smell, only dog breath and Hank smell.
Leaving Hank unhappily in the house, I headed back out to capture our renegade horses. The Skunk smell was fading as quickly as the dark. In the early light I saw two horses where they shouldn't be.
Grabbing a lead rope, I headed into the pasture towards Gus, closest to the gate. He was a good sport, although a bit spooky, unusual for him but which I attributed to the fading smells of Skunk. Thinking I was taking him to his stall for grain, I played right along. Once he was inside I gave him the bad news of sliding the door shut without grain and headed out for Sunny, our older horse.
Sunny was way out across a low area in the pasture where water gathers in the spring and produces the most lovely frog sounds at night. Walking through the "frog area" was going to be a problem for me, so I pleaded with Sunny to come to me. No dummy, Sunny paid no attention. It was obvious that all he cared about was his fine morning meal and not the lady in the camo jacket and sweats begging him to leave it for her.
So the lady in the camo jacket had to go to Sunny, through the freezing cold pond water, which went up and over her barn boots and above her knees, while she thought about all the frogs lives she was impacting and odd tickles inside her boots, which she didn't want to think about at all.
Once Sunny was in the stall next to Gus, I investigated how they'd gotten out. A big Belgian must have decided to rub his rear against the gate, pushing the gate latch through the wood that holds it, snapping the hot wire, which must have been quite a surprise to encounter (now I know why Gus was spooky.) I repaired the wire, closed the gate, turned the hot wire back on and put the horses back where they belonged.
As I slogged to the house with wild-women night time hair, smeared eye make-up, drenched sweat pants up past my knees covered in green slime, frog eggs and who knows what else oozing around and between my frozen toes, my husband pulled out of the garage, all dressed up and heading to work.
He drove over to get an update on my early morning adventure. As I leaned on his truck and emptied my boots of frogs, slime and water, I saw a little smile cross his face. But he's a smart man, he didn't say another word. Instead he quietly headed off to work.
That evening he told me he'd shared at his early morning meeting how I'd gotten up and went out to get the horses, fixed the hot wire and gate. He made it sound like I was the Cowgirl I've always wanted to be and that made me feel pretty good.
Our horses weren't any worse for wear from their early morning adventure and with one exception all was well. The exception? Well, the sound of frogs at night has been pretty sparse since that event. :)
Monday, May 10, 2010
How I Nailed Down My Confidence
I've ridden pleasure horses all my life and we've had horses for over ten years. Yet from my first fall at age five, I've always had to deal with confidence issues, more so now that I'm older.
Champ was our daughter's Performance Horse. He was never an easy horse for her but she was an advanced rider and with the help of trainers, she achieved positive results with him. When she gave up riding and headed off to college, my family encouraged me to step in and call Champ mine, knowing it was a dream I'd always had to ride such a horse. I recall not being sure about taking on this task and their assuring me that I was a better rider then I thought I was.
Still boarded where she'd ridden him, I signed up for lessons to learn how to ride 'correctly'. As I planned for an early retirement, I had dreams of spending my days with Champ, becoming his best friend, going to shows and experimenting with other disciplines of riding.
I'd been used to 'loving' my horses. But I found that if I tried to give Champ any "love" his behavior escalated totally out of control. He was definitely a give an inch take a mile guy. He greeted me with flattened ears and bared teeth when I'd approach his stall. Entering his stall, he'd charge me or try to flatten me against a wall.
I couldn't engage in any conversation around me when I had Champ out of his stall. If I talked at all, Champ's behavior would became worse to the point I could barely control him. My barn pals learned to not talk to me and I endured silence to ensure his behavior wouldn't escalate.
Hand feeding Champ created an even worse monster. As a result, I posted a sign on his stall that said (and still says), "Please Do Not Hand Feed". But well-intended individuals at the barn would still slip Champ treats. I could always tell when I arrived if Champ had been hand fed. He had no focus but being aggressive. He'd hang his head out his stall door as far as he could and try to bite anybody who walked by. Well-intended individuals soon learned better after encountering Champ's snake-like behavior.
Yet I rode him through the spring/summer and fall. I achieved my dream of showing in October and had a great time. But I had to literally tip-toe around him to ensure I had good behavior. As winter and cold weather came, our relationship went totally sideways. My rides became so bad that I felt in danger when I was on him and in late-November I stayed off, using the "holiday season" as an excuse to not ride.
My breaking point came in early January. After staying off for five weeks, and now being retired, I went to take my lesson and stood in tears next to Champ as I told my trainer that I was too terrified to get on. I cried so hard, mourning all my lost confidence, the good rides, the lope I'd started to achieve and the relationship (I thought) I'd made with this horse.
My trainer must have been as frustrated with me as I was with me. She suggested I sell Champ, telling me that he was the kind of horse where one would never know what they have until they got on. I told her my family was totally against the idea of selling him; I'd already brought up the subject. So either I dealt with this behavior or turned Champ out to pasture. Having lost my older riding horse at home a few weeks earlier to Colic, sending Champ home left me with no horse to ride.
My trainer told me that I then needed to accept what I have and commit to taking steps to 'fix' the problem. She really laid it on the line. She told me flat out that if I was going to keep riding with her, keep riding at all, that I needed to introduce ground work to Champ and my relationship. She warned me that it would take full commitment on my part and the road wouldn't be easy. She expected to see me at the barn every (and she stressed that word) day, working with Champ. I asked her if she could give me some pointers on ground work and she agreed, but only if I'd be present and utilize what I learned. I nodded my head and agreed to the "contract".
A fellow barn pal asked me if I'd like to get in on an order for rope halters from Clinton Anderson. I'd already been following a monthly article in a magazine on his work with a person who had some of the same issues I did. I ordered the halter and found the knots across the nose made a difference when I worked with Champ. He was so out of tune that initially they cut his face but the halter soon set a tone when I put it on him and he gave it great respect.
I had a stick at home. I brought it to the barn and carried it with me every time I was around Champ. If it wasn't for that stick I don't think I'd be here. In our earlier days of ground work, Champ would turn on me and with ears pinned and teeth bared, he'd charge me at a full gallop. I'd swing my stick from left for right in front of me. There were plenty of times I thought he'd run me over but I stood my ground and he'd turn at the last minute. I then knew (and he did too) that I'd won that round.
I spent every one of my newly retired days with Champ, following the articles in the magazine, referring to old ones, using my lessons and pointers from my trainer. Yes, I had extra time to work with Champ but I'd estimate that once I got my ground work routine down and Champ's behavior started to come around, it only took me an hour or so each day. Even though I didn't ride, the ground work and positive results it provided gave me confidence.
About 3 weeks later I felt ready to climb back up on Champ (after we completed our daily ground work). I had the most incredible ride and from there they got better and better.
About 5 or 6 weeks into ground work I learned the lesson that nails down my confidence every time I ride: Knowing what I have before I climb on. Both Champ and I were now comfortable with our ground work and I was able to judge from the licking and chewing, lowered head and overall demeanor, when it was ok to call it quits and ride.
Sure I didn't know 100 percent what I was going to get. Initially, when my confidence level was still low, I'd see the above-mentioned signals but I'd work Champ longer. Many times he was a sweating mess before I'd call it quits to ride. Interesting that on those days, he was so tired from the ground work that he was obviously relieved when I went to ride him.
I can only describe that like building blocks, the ground work and each ride got better and better to where I am today. Champ and I will be going to meet cows this Thursday and give a hand at sorting. Something I'd never have considered before.
Ground work now comes before riding, and it always will. I nailed my high level of confidence down tight with my mantra of knowing what I have before I climb on, using ground work as the tool to determine when we're ready.
Champ is a different horse. As soon as he hears my voice in the barn, he's at his stall door with ears pricked. Entering his stall, he makes room for me and waits patiently for my next move. I can visit and chat with my pal's as Champ stands patiently in the cross-ties. Walking to the arena, indoor or out, he walks at my shoulder and stops when I stop, backing a few steps.
Yes, we still have some issues but nothing that challenges my confidence or that I can't accept. Champ is an inquisitive horse and always will be. I haven't figured out if he's too intelligent or not intelligent enough, but either way it's maxed out on that side of the bar. He's normally lazy and I have to get his motor engaged when we work at the lope, etc.
He gives me "try" these days and it thrills me when he's consumed in listening to me and trying to do what I'm asking. He accepts correction when he's wrong, as if he knows it! Yet he gets grumpy when he's corrected and it's the rider's fault, not his.
Today I'm a rider for all seasons, not just a few. I no longer dread going to ride, but look forward to my time with Champ and the fun it brings us. I received the highest compliment recently when my husband told me, "You've become the rider you always wanted to be."
I owe my thanks ground work. It helped me nail down my confidence tightly and achieve the special relationship Champ and I now share.
Champ was our daughter's Performance Horse. He was never an easy horse for her but she was an advanced rider and with the help of trainers, she achieved positive results with him. When she gave up riding and headed off to college, my family encouraged me to step in and call Champ mine, knowing it was a dream I'd always had to ride such a horse. I recall not being sure about taking on this task and their assuring me that I was a better rider then I thought I was.
Still boarded where she'd ridden him, I signed up for lessons to learn how to ride 'correctly'. As I planned for an early retirement, I had dreams of spending my days with Champ, becoming his best friend, going to shows and experimenting with other disciplines of riding.
I'd been used to 'loving' my horses. But I found that if I tried to give Champ any "love" his behavior escalated totally out of control. He was definitely a give an inch take a mile guy. He greeted me with flattened ears and bared teeth when I'd approach his stall. Entering his stall, he'd charge me or try to flatten me against a wall.
I couldn't engage in any conversation around me when I had Champ out of his stall. If I talked at all, Champ's behavior would became worse to the point I could barely control him. My barn pals learned to not talk to me and I endured silence to ensure his behavior wouldn't escalate.
Hand feeding Champ created an even worse monster. As a result, I posted a sign on his stall that said (and still says), "Please Do Not Hand Feed". But well-intended individuals at the barn would still slip Champ treats. I could always tell when I arrived if Champ had been hand fed. He had no focus but being aggressive. He'd hang his head out his stall door as far as he could and try to bite anybody who walked by. Well-intended individuals soon learned better after encountering Champ's snake-like behavior.
Yet I rode him through the spring/summer and fall. I achieved my dream of showing in October and had a great time. But I had to literally tip-toe around him to ensure I had good behavior. As winter and cold weather came, our relationship went totally sideways. My rides became so bad that I felt in danger when I was on him and in late-November I stayed off, using the "holiday season" as an excuse to not ride.
My breaking point came in early January. After staying off for five weeks, and now being retired, I went to take my lesson and stood in tears next to Champ as I told my trainer that I was too terrified to get on. I cried so hard, mourning all my lost confidence, the good rides, the lope I'd started to achieve and the relationship (I thought) I'd made with this horse.
My trainer must have been as frustrated with me as I was with me. She suggested I sell Champ, telling me that he was the kind of horse where one would never know what they have until they got on. I told her my family was totally against the idea of selling him; I'd already brought up the subject. So either I dealt with this behavior or turned Champ out to pasture. Having lost my older riding horse at home a few weeks earlier to Colic, sending Champ home left me with no horse to ride.
My trainer told me that I then needed to accept what I have and commit to taking steps to 'fix' the problem. She really laid it on the line. She told me flat out that if I was going to keep riding with her, keep riding at all, that I needed to introduce ground work to Champ and my relationship. She warned me that it would take full commitment on my part and the road wouldn't be easy. She expected to see me at the barn every (and she stressed that word) day, working with Champ. I asked her if she could give me some pointers on ground work and she agreed, but only if I'd be present and utilize what I learned. I nodded my head and agreed to the "contract".
A fellow barn pal asked me if I'd like to get in on an order for rope halters from Clinton Anderson. I'd already been following a monthly article in a magazine on his work with a person who had some of the same issues I did. I ordered the halter and found the knots across the nose made a difference when I worked with Champ. He was so out of tune that initially they cut his face but the halter soon set a tone when I put it on him and he gave it great respect.
I had a stick at home. I brought it to the barn and carried it with me every time I was around Champ. If it wasn't for that stick I don't think I'd be here. In our earlier days of ground work, Champ would turn on me and with ears pinned and teeth bared, he'd charge me at a full gallop. I'd swing my stick from left for right in front of me. There were plenty of times I thought he'd run me over but I stood my ground and he'd turn at the last minute. I then knew (and he did too) that I'd won that round.
I spent every one of my newly retired days with Champ, following the articles in the magazine, referring to old ones, using my lessons and pointers from my trainer. Yes, I had extra time to work with Champ but I'd estimate that once I got my ground work routine down and Champ's behavior started to come around, it only took me an hour or so each day. Even though I didn't ride, the ground work and positive results it provided gave me confidence.
About 3 weeks later I felt ready to climb back up on Champ (after we completed our daily ground work). I had the most incredible ride and from there they got better and better.
About 5 or 6 weeks into ground work I learned the lesson that nails down my confidence every time I ride: Knowing what I have before I climb on. Both Champ and I were now comfortable with our ground work and I was able to judge from the licking and chewing, lowered head and overall demeanor, when it was ok to call it quits and ride.
Sure I didn't know 100 percent what I was going to get. Initially, when my confidence level was still low, I'd see the above-mentioned signals but I'd work Champ longer. Many times he was a sweating mess before I'd call it quits to ride. Interesting that on those days, he was so tired from the ground work that he was obviously relieved when I went to ride him.
I can only describe that like building blocks, the ground work and each ride got better and better to where I am today. Champ and I will be going to meet cows this Thursday and give a hand at sorting. Something I'd never have considered before.
Ground work now comes before riding, and it always will. I nailed my high level of confidence down tight with my mantra of knowing what I have before I climb on, using ground work as the tool to determine when we're ready.
Champ is a different horse. As soon as he hears my voice in the barn, he's at his stall door with ears pricked. Entering his stall, he makes room for me and waits patiently for my next move. I can visit and chat with my pal's as Champ stands patiently in the cross-ties. Walking to the arena, indoor or out, he walks at my shoulder and stops when I stop, backing a few steps.
Yes, we still have some issues but nothing that challenges my confidence or that I can't accept. Champ is an inquisitive horse and always will be. I haven't figured out if he's too intelligent or not intelligent enough, but either way it's maxed out on that side of the bar. He's normally lazy and I have to get his motor engaged when we work at the lope, etc.
He gives me "try" these days and it thrills me when he's consumed in listening to me and trying to do what I'm asking. He accepts correction when he's wrong, as if he knows it! Yet he gets grumpy when he's corrected and it's the rider's fault, not his.
Today I'm a rider for all seasons, not just a few. I no longer dread going to ride, but look forward to my time with Champ and the fun it brings us. I received the highest compliment recently when my husband told me, "You've become the rider you always wanted to be."
I owe my thanks ground work. It helped me nail down my confidence tightly and achieve the special relationship Champ and I now share.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Fear and the R-Word
My Mom was terrified of mice and rats. Her next door best friend, Joyce, was just as terrified of snakes. They had a deal. My Mom took care of Joyce's snakes and Joyce dealt with my Mom's mice. The agreement worked well for both of them for many years.
So guess what fear I inherited? Yup, my fear of mice/rats is famous. My story of fear is well told by my friends, who woke up at my parent's cabin on a 'girl's weekend', to find my bed empty, my car and clothes gone. They had no idea what had happened to me.
I'd been laying there WIDE awake watching the mice 'rule' the cabin while my friends all slept soundly. At 4AM, I'd had it. I got up, packed my bags and headed home on a 2 hour drive. I just couldn't deal with the mice running around the cabin floors, across the furniture, etc. It was like they owned the place! My pals never heard a thing.
Doesn't quite fit in with horses does it?
In our previous barn, the hay for our horses was up in a loft. There were around 20 ladder rings to reach the loft. Every time I went up the ladder, I'd take my metal rake and swing it with all my might against the ladder before I started the climb.
My message was, "I'm coming up, get out of my way"! The rats and mice understood my message. In all the years I climbed up to and worked around the loft, I never encountered a single...ugh.....hate this word....."R-o-d-e-n-t....."
The rats (huge Warf rats), mice (big fat ones) and I (5'3") had an "agreement". When I was up in the loft they kept out of my way. But I still faced the fear of running into one and was always tentative on my climb up. So much so that I named the last ring on the ladder "Commitment".
Once I stepped off Commitment I slid on my stomach onto the loft floor and then stood up. Leaving quickly wasn't an option, what happened after I left Commitment was something I had to deal with. I had to face it, I couldn't quickly retrace my steps.
When there were 4-tons of hay up in the loft, there wasn't any room for doubt when you stepped off of Commitment. I had less than a foot to negotiate getting on the loft. With my face pressed up against bales of sweet smelling hay, I'd struggle for room to get my legs under me and stand up. I was in a vulnerable position and dreaded I'd come face-to-face with some "R-Word's" visiting, uneducated, kin. Thankfully, they did a great job of educating their family and friends.
I pitied the poor kids who fed for us when we were out of town. The "R-Words" didn't get the iron rake warning. They didn't know someone was coming up the ladder until they met them face to face as the poor kid climbed off of Commitment. The screams of terror were heard across the fields.
Today our hay resides in one of our stalls as we don't have a loft. I miss turning the barn radio up full blast, climbing up and leaving Commitment to play "Rock Star", using my pitch fork as an air guitar and facing the flood light shining in my face from across the other side of the barn. Gotta tell you, it was a real thrill to be the Star of your own loft!
My husband and I, both professionals faced times of incredible stress while we climbed our career ladders. I'd be up in the loft sitting on a bale of hay, and my husband would be down below. On evenings after a rough day at work, we'd talk for hours about our days, how we'd endured, what we'd do better tomorrow, how we'd deal with conflicts. We'd cleanse our souls, mend our minds and repair our hearts. I'd climb down and we'd walk home, arm in arm to dinner, refreshed and better for our "barn time".
I miss seeing the horse's backs from the loft, coming into the mangers below, to get the hay I'd just slid down into their feeders. I used to like watching them from up there, wondering what they'd think if I jumped down onto their backs (probably wouldn't care for it too much). I loved hearing them munch and snort as they rummage around to get the best parts of their feed first.
Yes, those "R-words" are here at my present barn. But they don't seem to be as smart as the one's at my old barn. I seem to run into them more often, although I'm a seasoned barn person now and I don't (usually) scream (very) often.
I love our 5-stall barn, the loafing sheds and pastures through the doors on the various sides, the heated tack room, etc. But I'll always miss Commitment, having a loft, being my own rock star, and ...ugh, I must admit, my relationship with the "R-Words" that lived up there.
So guess what fear I inherited? Yup, my fear of mice/rats is famous. My story of fear is well told by my friends, who woke up at my parent's cabin on a 'girl's weekend', to find my bed empty, my car and clothes gone. They had no idea what had happened to me.
I'd been laying there WIDE awake watching the mice 'rule' the cabin while my friends all slept soundly. At 4AM, I'd had it. I got up, packed my bags and headed home on a 2 hour drive. I just couldn't deal with the mice running around the cabin floors, across the furniture, etc. It was like they owned the place! My pals never heard a thing.
Doesn't quite fit in with horses does it?
In our previous barn, the hay for our horses was up in a loft. There were around 20 ladder rings to reach the loft. Every time I went up the ladder, I'd take my metal rake and swing it with all my might against the ladder before I started the climb.
My message was, "I'm coming up, get out of my way"! The rats and mice understood my message. In all the years I climbed up to and worked around the loft, I never encountered a single...ugh.....hate this word....."R-o-d-e-n-t....."
The rats (huge Warf rats), mice (big fat ones) and I (5'3") had an "agreement". When I was up in the loft they kept out of my way. But I still faced the fear of running into one and was always tentative on my climb up. So much so that I named the last ring on the ladder "Commitment".
Once I stepped off Commitment I slid on my stomach onto the loft floor and then stood up. Leaving quickly wasn't an option, what happened after I left Commitment was something I had to deal with. I had to face it, I couldn't quickly retrace my steps.
When there were 4-tons of hay up in the loft, there wasn't any room for doubt when you stepped off of Commitment. I had less than a foot to negotiate getting on the loft. With my face pressed up against bales of sweet smelling hay, I'd struggle for room to get my legs under me and stand up. I was in a vulnerable position and dreaded I'd come face-to-face with some "R-Word's" visiting, uneducated, kin. Thankfully, they did a great job of educating their family and friends.
I pitied the poor kids who fed for us when we were out of town. The "R-Words" didn't get the iron rake warning. They didn't know someone was coming up the ladder until they met them face to face as the poor kid climbed off of Commitment. The screams of terror were heard across the fields.
Today our hay resides in one of our stalls as we don't have a loft. I miss turning the barn radio up full blast, climbing up and leaving Commitment to play "Rock Star", using my pitch fork as an air guitar and facing the flood light shining in my face from across the other side of the barn. Gotta tell you, it was a real thrill to be the Star of your own loft!
My husband and I, both professionals faced times of incredible stress while we climbed our career ladders. I'd be up in the loft sitting on a bale of hay, and my husband would be down below. On evenings after a rough day at work, we'd talk for hours about our days, how we'd endured, what we'd do better tomorrow, how we'd deal with conflicts. We'd cleanse our souls, mend our minds and repair our hearts. I'd climb down and we'd walk home, arm in arm to dinner, refreshed and better for our "barn time".
I miss seeing the horse's backs from the loft, coming into the mangers below, to get the hay I'd just slid down into their feeders. I used to like watching them from up there, wondering what they'd think if I jumped down onto their backs (probably wouldn't care for it too much). I loved hearing them munch and snort as they rummage around to get the best parts of their feed first.
Yes, those "R-words" are here at my present barn. But they don't seem to be as smart as the one's at my old barn. I seem to run into them more often, although I'm a seasoned barn person now and I don't (usually) scream (very) often.
I love our 5-stall barn, the loafing sheds and pastures through the doors on the various sides, the heated tack room, etc. But I'll always miss Commitment, having a loft, being my own rock star, and ...ugh, I must admit, my relationship with the "R-Words" that lived up there.
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