Spring is blooming in Central Massachusetts. Rain has been minimal the past few weeks, allowing trails to dry out: perfect riding conditions.
Monday, we stayed local. Our 6.6 mile route crossed what we call the river. It’s slowly receding but still horse knee deep. There were a few iffy moments for me at the gas line. Jigs got “jiggy”, so I elected not to gallop up the hill. A little later we had to duck under a low branch while cantering, although it was a blast and quite funny.
Grafton Route
There was lots of laughter and conversation. Best line of the day: “I can’t hear you over your horse’s farts.” I was having so much fun, I did not take any photos.
Jigs and I trailered to Douglas State Forest (DSF) the next day to meet up with a friend and her mare. We hadn’t ridden together before so we weren’t sure how our horses would react to one another. No issue. They were fast friends, and after the ride her mare followed Jigs to our trailer. Jigs usually tries to lead or follow but he was willing to ride side by side with her. We even cantered together!
DSF has marvelous trails. Not all are horse friendly, like the hikers/bikers only Mid State Trail, but there are miles of horse trails. We rode off of Wallis Street, and stayed on that side of the forest. There are other parking areas to access more trails. The Southern New England Trunkline Trail runs through DSF, as does another rail trail, the Grand Truck Trail. Main trails are named and well marked. The Massachusetts Department of Conservation and Recreation maintains the forest and keeps the trails clear. They get support from local trail organizations like The Bay State Trail Riders (BSTRA.org).
DSF Ride
My knowledge of DSF is limited and yesterday’s 9 mile ride included trails I had not been on before. I learned about which to avoid and a short cut to bypass a rocky area. I am looking forward to exploring more DSF trails this summer.
The past two days of riding has left me grateful for the life I live! Thunderstorms are in today’s forecast, so Jigs will get a needed rest. Happy Trails!
60 degrees at the beginning of March! Blue sky after gray rain.
I took Jigs on my daily walk.
Three miles walking strengthens partnership. Yes, I could have ridden but our usual trails are muddy from the crazy rain, and it felt good to be beside him for a change.
So, we headed down the street in a different direction than our usual route. My plan was to cut through the old pine grove, where we used to ride, to avoid backtracking.
Good idea that lacked execution; I took a wrong turn. I would say we got lost, but I suspect the red pony knew exactly where we were as he dramatically sighed a few times. The old trail was broken, and we had to bushwack to the highway to find where it picked up again. I knew these trails before loggers destroyed them. The local land trust is working to restore them.
Downed trees, mud, a brook, big trucks- Jigs didn’t hesitate. Trusty trail pony he is.
On the way back we ran into a horse and buggy. Jigs got snorty. Did he think it was Spoc? I let them go ahead of us; he wanted to follow them when we turned toward our barn. Silly boy.
We were sweating by the time we got back. Okay, maybe me more than him. He is starting to let go of winter, but his coat is still thick; he was warm- honest…
What a difference a year makes. Just because that is cliché doesn’t mean it is not true.
Last February at this time, like many of my co-workers, I was stressed about the upcoming round of “reorgs” spinning in the rumor mill. Every February, this annual event disrupted my head, my stomach, my sleep, my focus. For years, I made it to the other side.
Then last year I didn’t.
At 65, for the first time since I was a teenager, I was without a job. Dreading starting over again in a world created for youth and short term thinking, I decided to take the hit and retire early, despite being months from full retirement age.
It turned out to be the right decision.
This February is just another month, albeit with less days. My blood pressure is normal. I sleep, I eat well. I walk nearly every day. Dark winter afternoons don’t prevent me from riding.
In two months, Jigs and I have traveled 103 trail miles. Last year at this time, we only had 21; the year before, 27.
Our lifetime tracked miles are 3,731, 269 from 4,000! Fingers crossed we both stay healthy. If we do, we will crush that!
Several years ago, I had a panic attack in the middle of a snow ride with a large group of friends. When their horses exuberantly took off at a gallop through the wonderful snow-covered footing, I panicked and stopped Jigs from going, afraid he would buck or fall or bolt. It wasn’t rational. I can ride out a buck and a gallop. But at that moment I couldn’t.
I feel the same panic when I think a car is going to pull out in front of me or when there is an unexpected noise. I slam on the brakes, pull back the reins, jump in place. My body is constantly on high alert and my nervous system triggers without conscious thought.
That day, I let my friends continue their ride and Jigs and I went home a different way. I stopped riding in large groups. I even considered giving up riding all together.
Horses in a group are a herd and their instinct is to stay with their buddies. My intellectual brain knows that. My nervous system does not.
I spent a few years working on my fears, not just related to riding, but life in general. I learned exercises through therapy that slow my reactions. I took riding lessons to improve my seat, especially at the canter. I read books, like Crissy McDonald’s Continuing the Ride (https://www.amazon.com/Continuing-Ride-Rebuilding-Confidence-Ground/dp/1732825831), that helped me understand the brain and fear. I am on a journey to fill in my gaps, become a better rider for Jigs.
At 66 I don’t bounce like I did when I was younger.
This week I went on another snow ride. I chose again not to gallop off with the herd and despite Jigs’ desire to go, he stayed with me, albeit protesting a bit. We eventually caught up with our friends.
When we did canter off in the soft footing, I sat through an exuberant buck and we cantered some more. He is a horse after all and entitled to fun in the snow!
But this time I see it differently. He stayed with me, took care of me, and let me release my moment of fear.
What a wonderful pony and good friends I have. I am blessed.
This last morning of 2023, I await the suns return. Already dark is graying; it is only minutes to sunrise.
December has been warm and watery. Trails are muddy. Jigs detests the footing. Riding has been limited, partly out of respect for Jigs’ age and for the trails themselves. Best to let both recover from the rain.
2023 has been a year of transition. My job of 32 plus years was eliminated. Rather than find a filler job to get me to full social security, I made the decision to retire.
Most of my adult life was consumed by work. I got caught in the web of the job is who I am. But when it was gone, I realized it was not.
Years of shuffling papers on a desk, typing into a computer, orchestrating others. This world gallops forward, there is no legacy in hoofprints. Nothing of significance is left behind except the people. I slipped away with little acknowledgement I was ever there.
Losing my job was in a way, a gift. I rode and played with the pony through Summer and Autumn. I walked miles, alone in the woods. I discovered my old poems and wrote new ones.
I found a path patiently waiting for me to return and stepped forward into daylight.
November is when most organized horse events stop in New England. Jigs and I participated in our last judged ride on November 5th. We placed second in our division even though my brain fell apart at the second gate, and I messed up by overthinking.
Second Place
Overthinking is one of my fatal flaws. That and my noisy hands.
Winter is the time for slow trail rides and ring work. This week I set myself a challenge- to stop and turn off my seat and legs without using reins. I struggle with keeping my hands still and interfere with Jigs doing his job. I can use the frozen months to work on this.
And I will use Winter’s pause to continue sorting the stuff my parents left behind, like photos from the 50s and 60s. I don’t know the names of many people among them, probably friends of my parents. I did recognize an old car- a Chevy Impala my father loved. I recall riding in the back seat angry my parents were taking me from the solitude of my book to visit cousins.
As their only child, there are lots of photos of me. What strikes me is how even at two or three, my mannerisms were fully formed. Here’s one of me talking to Santa with my hands, something I do today. Noisy hands.
Talking to Santa
Snapshots of forgotten moments to digitize. It seems a shame to throw away the unrecognized ones. They are someone’s memory, someone’s treasure, but there’s no space to keep them, no one to look at them.
This pruning is part of the aging process. Keep only what matters and release the rest.
In my last post, I stated it’s not about collecting ribbons, but when you get them, it’s a rush and validation of all the practice hours and dollars spent in pursuit of improvement.
L2 Open Ride Champion – Photo Credit Mountain Lane Farm
The final 2023 trail challenge at Mountain Lane Farm is behind us. Last weekend, Jigs and I headed out of the barn at 6:15 in the rain. As we neared the New Hampshire state line, the rain stopped, but it stayed chilly most of the day.
We arrived in time for the walk through at 8. The two judges patiently explained what they expected at each obstacle and answered our questions. “Straightness” was the theme. Jigs and I compete in Level 2, in hand, adult ride, and open ride, so there was plenty of time after the walk through to groom and warm up as we waited for our classes.
As usual, in hand was a debacle. I am clumsy and struggle with spatial awareness. A recent DNA trait update on Ancentry.com indicates I am “Least Likely to enjoy dancing.” True. I’ve never been comfortable in my body. This spills to hand classes where I get confused and tangled up in the lead rope. Poor Jigs. He’s so forgiving. The judge noted on the scorecard how often I touched him and we finished near the bottom of the large class.
Rolling Bridge – Photo curtesy of Mountain Lane Farm
Adult ride was much better. I was aware of my mistakes (all mine, not Jigs’) so my expectation of pinning was low. It was a large class with strong competitors. We completed the 360 degrees turn on the rolling bridge, but I had to back him up a few steps to avoid stepping off at 180 degrees. It cost us a point. Overall, our total score was 70.5, enough for second place! Much better than the first two challenges.
Trailhead – Photo curtesy of Mountain Lane Farm
Our scores in the open ride were lower, 68.5, but enough to place first. We lost points because of my sloppiness- a half point here and there adds up.
Box – Photo curtesy of Mountain Lane Farm
For me mountain trail is not about collecting points or ribbons- it’s about building communication with my horse. When I think back to where we were last year, I see improvement. And I FEEL when we are not in sync on the course. The judges’ scores mirrored what I felt on the obstacle. In the open class, I lost tempo coming down the trot hill and fumbled on the trail head turn; my scores reflected that.
Ribbons
The win for me is I recognized it on the course. A few years ago, I would have been blissfully aware. My horsemanship scores have improved. Even with my wobbles in the open class, we scored a 5!
I am thrilled with how far Jigs and I have come and look forward to next year!
I was going to write about it, but this morning, my eyes caught flashes of color- wild flowers.
In my late twenties I became obsessed with knowing all things wildflower. Horseless, I found myself walking, backroads, local trails. They were everywhere, alongside young trees in vacant lots, unworked fields, ditches. After all, New England is a forest waiting to return.
Weekends, armed with my Audubon Field Guide, I sought changing colors week to week, month to month. Ephemeral and exquisite, I was drawn to stunning sensuality.
And the poems came. I had the book title too: Learning the Latin Names of Flowers.
But life, as it does, got in the way, and the poems stopped.
Why wildflowers? What drew me to them?
Spiritual Healing
Some have forgotten
your name, but I see
your many faces
in the flowers
strewn by roadsides
and across fields.
Like the hips of young girls,
their petals sway in the breeze,
calling to the bees,
and they come.
Yet you are
a cavern fringed with Winter
and we are bears
sleeping through long nights.
In your wisdom,
you leave us
so we may come
from your dark
into your light.
for like us
you are a bear
and we your nursing cubs.
This earth is brown and green,
and when water breaks
from the sky: blue.
Like great thighs
your mountains call us
and we come.
Healing? Maybe. Or fixing failure?
As a high school freshman, I was given a September biology assignment due the last week of school. I was to collect, dry, and catalog local wildflowers throughout the year.
Too busy partying, I promptly forgot the assignment until two weeks before it was due. I tried to capture remnants of May and early June flowers, but they were not dry, and I fooled no one. I flunked the assignment and the class.
Maybe that is where the poems came from.
Since that failure, I have learned not all local flowers are wild, some escaped from gardens and wreak havoc. Loosestrife is an invasive species.
Does it matter? Magnificent and magnetic, unbound flowers call to me. Tansy, Yarrow, Lady Slippers-
Hawkweed
Remnants of Rags
Yellow tatters left behind
by a careless woman
litter the road:
Kites bound to Earth
by green string.
And Black Eyed Susan-
Rudbeckia hirta
A name more violent
than spicy mustard,
implies barmaid brawls
or beaten wives,
and though rough leaved,
a field of suffragettes
marching toward the light.
Maybe that is what we are all doing…. marching toward the light.
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