Horse Whisperer

Letting go of fear

I’m only smiling because the ride is over!

I never learned to ride a horse. As a child I fantasized about it, but I was more into the fantasy, where it was effortless and romantic, than the reality of dealing with a large, unpredictable animal. Although I grew up in a town that was surrounded by farms, and I once peered inside a cow’s stomach at the Large Animal Clinic at the University of Illinois, I rarely went anywhere near a horse and never got on one.

Many years later, at the age of 48, I found myself on a 10-day tour of Costa Rica that included a short horseback-riding leg. It was a tiny part of the trip, mainly to get from one destination to another, and I had picked the tour despite it, not because of it. The idea terrified me. My mother had told me how she’d sworn off horses after falling off of one at her British high school in Buenos Aires. I wasn’t used to large animals, and I had no idea how to ride.

But I didn’t give the ride much thought till the day before it was set to happen, about halfway through the trip in a mountainous region away from the coast. Maybe I thought I could avoid it when the time came. And as it turned out, I could have. I could have opted to be driven and rejoin the group later, and I briefly considered that. But somehow that felt like a cop-out — and everyone else was going on horseback. I steeled myself and went along with the group. Was I trying to fit in, or trying to challenge myself? I think it was a bit of both.

As we approached the group of over a dozen horses, the animals seemed to grow bigger with every step we took. The one assigned to me was a tawny beast that towered at twice my height — at least, that’s how it looked from my vantage point. And I have a serious fear of heights.

I once rode a white mule called Haole down to the hard-to-access former leper colony on Molokai, but that animal was a more manageable size and ambled steadily and slowly in single file with its fellow mules down a clearly marked trail. These giants, in contrast, were milling about in a field, and there was no clear indication of where they’d be taking us. I didn’t like the looks of it.

But I was committed. What could I do but move forward?

I needed help to climb onto my mountain of a horse, and once in the saddle, I wasn’t sure what to do. We got some basic instructions that felt way too brief, and before I had time to figure it all out, we set off. The horses seemed eager to go. All I could concentrate on was staying in my seat. The saddle felt slippery and the reins unstable; the handmade rope bridles did not inspire confidence. I wished for some kind of handlebars like you have on a bike. I was sure I’d fall off.

My view from the saddle.

I held on for dear life, my heart pounding fast and my hands sweating — which didn’t help my grip on the reins. But the horses seemed to know where they were going and walked, trotted, or whatever it is they do at a steady pace. Okay, maybe I’d survive this after all. It wasn’t so bad, if I could just stay in the saddle.

Suddenly, just as I was getting my bearings, some of the horses toward the front of the group started galloping. That set the others off — including mine. To be clear, I don’t really know the difference between a trot, a canter, and a gallop. I can say with authority, though, that those horses were running. They wanted to move.

This was worse than I’d expected, and I hadn’t gone into the ride with high expectations. I couldn’t keep up with the thoughts racing through my brain, which seemed to chase each other around like the galloping horses. What am I going to do? How can I stay on this thing? Please, please don’t let me fall off!

I gripped my horse’s rough mane, along with the slippery reins, and concentrated on staying in my seat. I tried to breathe deeply and remember the instructions. Dig in your heel on one side of the horse, while pulling the reins, to indicate to the horse that it should turn. What else had they said to do? Was there a way to slow the horse down?

Then — I’m not sure how or why — something shifted in me. I let go of the instructions and tried to connect with the horse under me. I leaned into its neck, spoke to it softly, and tugged gently on the reins. “Hey there, sweet horsie,” I whispered, while stroking its neck. “Whoa, there. Slow down, slow down, take it easy. I love you, dear horse. Slow down, you beautiful thing.”

To my amazement, it worked! The horse eased back into a walk, or slow trot, or whatever you call it. I caught up with the group, we reached our destination safely, and I have the photos to prove it.

The horses were lined up at the end of the ride for a photo op, but most of the experience was much more unruly.

I was worn out and shaky and so very glad to get off that horse. The experience didn’t instill in me a love of riding, and I don’t feel the need to repeat it. It didn’t change my relationship with horses — though I love animals, I still know nothing about horses.

But it felt good to know that for a moment, I’d been able to let go of fear. To connect in that way with an animal I’d been so afraid of. For one very brief but very shining moment, I was a horse whisperer.