Happy Trails

As a kid, I wasn’t all that hot over riding horses.

That was my sister's department. 

  I’d say that maybe because no matter how many times we'd adjust the stirrups for a ride, my legs always got cramped.  That or I'd get a worn out nag who had a perchance to run its rider into low hanging branches whenever it could; sneaky as a cat.  

Then there was my favorite; a half-wild beast whose training had two exclusive increments; Stop, or Full-out.  Never mind  that I address the general garden variety trail horses, or that I did not possess adequate instructions for me to be a stand in on a Bonanza episode, riding across a mountain glade smiling gaily.  It was beyond my natural skill.  I just didn't get the romantic attraction to horseback riding as girls did.  I was aware and liked the carnival of smells, I even enjoyed the sound of creaking leather whenever you moved, but not enough to distract the dull pulsing ache in my calves, or the pine tar taste left in my mouth from and unforeseen saplings slapping me in the face.

   Once we reached the half waypoint on any trail, the magical transformation would occur. Where the once a plodding replica of a sorry-wornout-plow pulling bag-of-bones would suddenly turn into a contestant for the Triple Crown. 

A seasoned trail rider would know there are those types of horses known as  'barn broke' mares on every trail ride, and I should know by now, I'd be the lucky one to draw such a mount in a chance of a lifetime lottery...consistently. The juncture of change would be instantly; from doddering to bouncing mercilessly in my ill fitting saddle. The so called ‘tame’ trail horse became a fire breathing hell stallion making its head long dash homeward.  No amount of whoa's could curtail the race back. I considered it a divine mercy that I made it back still in the saddle, and not pulled along in the dirt by the stirrup like a shot cowboy: fade to black.