Horses, of courses

A crisp breeze from the mountain peaks whistled down into the Chena Valley, which was bathed in the amber glow of another endless Alaskan sunset. I galloped on horseback down a dusty track that was fringed with the skeletonal white trunks of birch trees not yet in full leaf. Soon the river came into view; floating slabs of ice clung to shadowy edges where the spring sun had not yet melted away the grip of a seven-month long winter. They say that Alaska truly only has two seasons: winter and summer – spring and autumn arrive fleetingly and are gone again in a matter of weeks.

Ok, maybe I wasn’t exactly galloping. (But it sounded good, didn’t it?)
No, it was more of a leisurely walk, suited to the fact that I was riding a horse for the first time in my life. My horse was a gelding called Sundance (for those of you who don’t know, a gelding is a male horse who has had ‘the snip’) and he and I were getting along just fine. Occasionally he got a little enthusiastic and broke into a bone-jolting trot. It took a while for me to figure out how to use the brakes; meanwhile my bum was experiencing a sensation akin to being beaten with a cricket bat. Eventually, through the haze of posterior pain I coordinated the reins, and gave the command to slow down in what I hoped was an authoritative tone. To my surprise he took notice and ceased to throw me around like a rag doll. Yeah - I thought – Who’s the boss of you! Who’s the boss? I’m the boss, I’m – “Ugh, woah!” I fell forward over his head, dragged down by his sudden movement as he plunged his head into a patch of new grass and began to nibble without any consideration for my comfort. I felt the saddle horn digging into my stomach but held with white knuckles, obeying the number one rule of riding – never lose the reins; lose the feeling in your bum, lose the feeling in your legs, but never let go of the reins. Riding without reins is like driving a car without brakes or steering wheel.
Sundance eventually had his fill of grass and we continued with steady progress across the river, and onto the final part of the trail. The rhythm began to seep into my bones and by the end of the ride I was moving more fluidly in the saddle, swaying with the horse’s movement in a way that John Wayne would have been proud of. I decided that this was much more pleasant than elephant riding.

After a smooth dismount, unaided, I was really impressed with myself, and considering I had never ridden a horse before I think I performed admirably. Sundance and I had a spiritual bond, I was sure of it. I ran my hands down his taut muscled neck and saw my own reflection in the liquid shine of his dark eyes. He stamped magnificently and at that moment a mound of pungent horse crap poured out of his rear, piling on the straw-scattered ground. I moved away and gave him a reproachful look. Yeah, we had some bond, that horse and I.

I walked back to the lodge singing under my breath, “Yeah, I’m a cowgirl, and on this steel horse I ride. I’m wanted: dead or alive.” I peered around expectantly, looking for a sexy cowboy, or maybe Jon Bon Jovi to come galloping out of the sunset.

No such luck.