The old wooden bridge my mare refused to go over? Well, it was unsafe. We waded across the small creek instead, and I never again asked her or any other horse to go across something without knowing that its structure was sound.
She was sure footed, but I also learned to take care when descending a steep, wooded hill after a rain. Slips could happen at any time to the best of horses, including mine.
For me back then, it was all about the destination. “Let’s ride to the lake,” someone would call out, and off we’d go, bareback and sunburned. At first, I was all about getting there, but over time, I found that going on the journey was just as much fun as reaching the finish line. I also learned spacing out on the trail. Get my mare too close to another horse and someone could get kicked. And those two-points my riding instructor drilled into me? Well, they actually had purpose outside of jumping. I often found myself in a half-seat or two-point when my mare and I headed up a steep hill, or when I ducked under a tree branch. Out on the trail was where I really learned to ride.
Trail riding is, simply put, a blast. But if you take time to fully understand how much you learn about yourself and about horses, it becomes an even more incredible experience.
Happy trails.
ACTHA Monthly | September 2015 | 50
Trail
Talk
With
Lisa Wysocky
Lisa Wysocky is a horsewoman and clinician; a PATH instructor, mentor, and ESMHL; and the author of many books..
Find her at LisaWysocky.com
or on Facebook.
Lessons of Long-Ago Rides
I don’t remember my first trail ride. It was long ago, to be sure, and the experience has melded its details into those of many other long ago rides. Back then I was fortunate enough to keep my horse in what I’d call a suburban farm community. Small family farms were mixed with single acre homesteads. Just about everyone let us kids ride along the edge of their yard or field, and there were plenty of woods for us to wind our way through. We could go miles without crossing a road.
Of course, I remember the beauty of the fall Midwest colors, and the spring green of new April leaves, but what is most imprinted on my mind is the wisdom of my horse. I had a small, white Appaloosa mare who would, in these days, be called a “babysitter.” But I learned much from her.
I learned that when she stopped with her ears pricked toward the dense woods that something was going to happen. I needed to learn to wait for it, and when I did, I would be rewarded by a line of ducks or geese crossing the trail, or by spotting a family of deer nearly hidden just yards away.