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Sunday, March 20, 2005
Horse sense
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True adventures often arise from the unexpected, from our misfortunes and missteps. They are what happen when you are following a wrong turn, a difficult pursuit, even a crazy notion. So it was that I began taking weekly horseback riding lessons at Wegota Farm in Bridgton last May. This strange journey began without much thought, when a friend with a Clydesdale farm asked for help exercising his gentle giants. The reply at the time was simple: "Sure. Wait until I take a few riding lessons." That's when Gary led me to Gail, Gail introduced me to Comehere, and Comehere carried off my imagination. Comehere, a stubborn, wily old man of a horse, and I have since bushwhacked between trees, waded together into a tranquil beaver pond, bounded up rocky slopes like gunslingers and trotted on jaunts that transported us through time. RIDING WITH NATURE With a farm called "We-Got-A" and a lesson horse named Comehere, it should be obvious that Gail Andrews is not your conventional riding instructor. She teaches natural horsemanship. This style of riding is learned without excessive equipment and often by simply riding through the woods. As promised that first day, her lessons in natural horsemanship were based on simple instruction. A brush was handed out, followed by the bozal, that loose halter that gives the horse more control. There is no traditional bridle here. The idea in riding the natural way is to be kinder to the horse by making it tougher on the rider. The saddle, when it causes too much confusion over posture, is used without stirrups. Learn to ride with your legs, not your heels. Learn patience and the horse will follow. If you ride a horse when he wants to be ridden, there's little fear he'll throw you, so helmets are not required at Andrews' horse farm, although I do wear one. Knowing the commands and delivering them clearly is key. "As you get better, he'll get better," Andrews promised. While natural horsemanship is growing among horse trainers, Andrews lives it. Her farm sits next to a wooden ranch with long windows that look over the paddocks. Comehere, Jet and Streak can be seen from the kitchen at all times. They are with Andrews in some way at every moment. Certainly, Comehere is. Andrews has been around horses for 45 years. Comehere, her 24-year-old Arabian mix, has been with her for nearly half her life. She talks of cross-country races in which she rode the half-Arabian, half-quarter-horse gelding for 30 miles. She barrel-raced him with much success. She won the deeply carved leather saddle she uses for lessons. One thing is certain: If Gail Andrews were a horse, she'd be a wild paint or sassy palomino. In only a month this horse handler had unearthed her student's truest goal. This was no longer about simply helping a friend. "I want to beat Gary in a race," I said of the 63-year-old horse farmer. And just like out on the trail, Andrews was right there with me. WOODLAND JOURNEY The woods around Wegota Farm quickly became the best training ground for such a lofty goal. So after a half-dozen lessons in the ring, we left it to explore the western mountain region where Andrews lives. And that's where a strange thing happened. Out among the birch trees and brooks, beside the ferns, foliage and late-fall freeze, we got lost, and found our way. We walked and trotted through unending woodland trails, talking as we rode, less about horse handling, and more and more about life. She described her work as a school bus driver, her time as a police officer, her years as a trucker. I listened, sometimes cheered, always waiting to hear if her new goals had caught fire. And somehow, as if by osmosis, Andrews taught me to ride. What is strange about this organic way of riding is what happens when rider and horse come to understand one another by touch and time, sound and mood. Perhaps it's that on the trails, the boundaries for each changed. Comehere could munch on vegetation or break into a free-wheeling trot. He had escaped the redundancy of the ring. His spirit lightened. His mood changed. Which isn't to say he behaved. Whenever possible Comehere tore at low-lying branches. He moved toward sweet high grass with a quick step. "Don't let him do that. When he's going fast, he'll throw you," Andrews warned over her back. Envision the world dropping out from under you. She said that's what would happen if your horse dropped his head in mid-gallop. Slowly, I learned when to guide Comehere away from the Edge of the World - and when to let him peek. And from this constant give-and-take, an understanding grew. Andrews promised this would happen: If you listen to your horse, he'll give back. Ask, don't order. Promise, don't lie. Make your horse your partner, not your steed. Only then will he become your companion. By fall, when Comehere was back in the ring, this stubborn horse was moving where he was asked, stepping where he had refused to go, even zigzagging around buckets. He once executed a nice sidestep. "I told you. As you get better, he'll get better," Andrews said simply. And yet, learning to guide Comehere up over gullies, through thickets and branches, riding had become secondary. Suddenly it was less about horsemanship than history. It reminded me how the first settlers enjoyed their horses and explored the outdoors. And it reminded me that communication is key and giving back is everything. RIDE ON When Gail and I met at Gary's farm in December, we celebrated his 63rd birthday with a ride apiece on a Clydesdale as green as the summer hills. At that point, the glory in racing had waned. Helping Gail break the 3-year-old filly had become more important. Gail led the way, I showed off my newfound skills, and the horse farmer followed. Gracie, the gentle Clydesdale - with the 6-foot-high shoulders - had been ridden just once before. No matter for her. She quickly figured out the novice among us. While she trotted smoothly for Gail, Gracie's 9-inch-wide hoofs slipped beneath me. I considered the weight of this horse, the distance to the ground, and let her lead as Gail hollered at me like never before. On our next winter visit to the ring, the ice had gone, the snow had deepened, and Gracie had better footing. She still made things tough, slowing to a stubborn speed. "Keep going. You both need the practice," Gail yelled. But just as my mentor called to "trot," and, like a fool, I echoed, Gracie fooled us all. She cantered. Her large hoofs crow-hopped through the snow and as this massive Clydesdale jumped, my mind leapt with her - back to Comehere. Sitting upright, I squeezed at the calves, pulled quick on the bozal, and listened, when, for the first time in 10 months, I heard Gail Andrews cheer. After Gracie came to a stop, I swung my leg around, dropped to the ground, and enjoyed that moment in the air like it lasted an hour. "Way to hang on to her," Gail said, smiling. "You didn't even grab her mane." Riding, I realized then, is a lot like life. Somewhere between Comehere's attempts to ignore me and Gracie's get-along effort, these horses broke me. They changed my way of thinking. Gail's lessons proved a horse is no different than a class-IV rapid, a steep alpine slope or a winter storm. Sometimes in life, stuff happens. And pull on the reins all you want, you can't always control it. Funny how I was first drawn to Gail's farm to hear her tales of barrel contests and cross-country rides. I would drive two hours every week to dream of the Laytown Races, that storied Irish horse race across the coast of County Meath. And it seemed hard to believe this endeavor began for friendship's sake. That, of course, is no longer true. Somewhere between the western Maine border and Gary's Sebago horse farm, that changed. And an adventure began. Staff Writer Deirdre Fleming can be contacted at 791-6452 or at:
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