I started riding in 1986, taking lessons once a week and riding the stable's horses some evenings. I learned Western riding in the Santa Cruz mountains with the patient help of quarterhorses. Over the next years I looked for a horse to be my own, never quite feeling ready but taking more lessons.
In 1992 I was living in Palo Alto and joined the Foothill College riding program, which I highly recommend for beginners and intermediate riders. The classes are given through the extension and are held at the Fremont Hills Country Club Stables in Los Altos, not far from Foothill's campus. I learned to ride English there and began jumping.
After moving to Alameda in 1993, I took more lessons locally, and then got my own horse Max. Max was a registered appaloosa, born in 1970. He was a good old guy and I highly recommend an old horse to be "schoolmaster" for anyone getting into horses, no matter what their breed- though Max taught me a certain amount of appreciation for spotted horses.
Max lived in Pleasanton at Brown Ranch . Max was given to me for free; his former owner had purchased him from a feed lot. He was a horse that anyone could ride, so that she could have friends ride with her. He would patiently pack people along for a trail ride, be a lesson horse for my kids, go into the nicest soft western jog, or go into a beautiful English frame when asked. Out in the hills, when I got my body position right, he would go long and low and gave me great rewards for the work we did together. He wouldn't respond to a cue if it was not correct and precise; he was on the lazy side- good brakes, as we said- so I learned to be firm.
I am, at best, still a beginning rider- there is still so much for me to learn. Max taught me a tremendous amount. I will always remember the time that Max slipped and fell in the mud- but I stayed on; he got up again and I stayed on.
As is often true of elderly horses, when Max turned 29, he was no longer an "easy keeper", but needed to have his hay supplemented almost daily to keep weight on. He also was not doing well for trail rides on the hard-packed clay soil, so I moved him to my friend Donna's ranch in Oregon for a well-deserved retirement. I would visit him, and we'd go out into the hay fields for a wonderful workout.
I can't describe the wonderful feeling of cantering along through the fields- no worry about gopher holes; the birds rise up from the grass and fly with us. In the evening the deer are out, and we trot toward the herd; when we are close enough they take flight, and stop to graze again until we catch up. Max again proved to be an ideal horse- he'd go over bridges, unhesitatingly; past dogs and cows, and down to the river, where I stripped off his saddle so we could swim.
I enjoyed many early morning rides with Max, out in morning mist, with the dew heavy on the grass. We also went out during the day, or in the evening. First I'd give him a good brushing and grooming, picking out his feet, checking him out all over, just getting reacquainted; then I toss a saddle on, and his bridle. He was always willing to go on a walk.
Then we would head out on the road and go into the main field, which is 24 acres. I'd see how he was feeling- some walking, some circles, bending, and then a trot around the periphery of the field, using the wheel line as a boundary. Then we'd pick up a canter. I always rode in a loose-ring snaffle, and Max would often ignore the canter cue the first time- until I single-handed the reins; then he'd accept that this was for real, and off we went. It was only that first time that he'd give me any resistance; after that, as long as he was feeling good, he only needed the lightest cue, and we were off to canter along the wheel line and turn at the fence and out into the rest of the field.
Donna's land borders BLM land with good trails so we could also go into the woods and meander there. The dogs would accompany us on these trails, checking things out in the grass and under the trees. Sometimes Donna's daughter would ride with me; she has a young retired race horse, GB, who is learning to be a riding horse. Sometimes Donna would join me on her palomino quarter horse, Vanilla. GB is green and Vanilla is a bit silly- spooking at very ordinary things- so Max is a good and calming influence to them, and an enjoyable mount for me.
I'm a person who never got into sports and hated excersize until I took up riding. There's something special about being on horseback that does not feel like work, even when I'm panting and sweating and my muscles ache. As Max and I fly across the field I am grinning, loving it and him, even as I'm thinking "heels down" and "giving hands" and proper leg position. Max is not a speedy guy; his hand gallop doesn't scare me. It's a love affair with the horse, with nature, with the work. I do not have this when I ride Vanilla or GB; others do not have this with Max. (In his more cantankerous moments, he's refused to do as asked, has bullied Donna and has tossed her son off his back.) This is as much about my relationship with Max as it is about riding. I have learned so much about him- his cues to me; his limits; his abilities and his preferences. I would not be loving this if my horse did not love it and go at it with the enthusiasm and pleasure that Max has. Some of it is training; most of it is the patterns we have set up between us, and the years of riding and work that we have done together.
I have fairly severe rheumatoid arthritis. I have had to give up so much of what I used to be able to do; sometimes I need help getting dressed. Knowing that this was coming, I worked with a trainer to get off my dependence on my hands, and to get Max to listen to fairly light cues, so I could still have a ride when I was stiff and sore and not able to give him strong signals. That work has stayed with us. I see Max's ears pitch back at me as he assesses where I'm at; we've set up patterns of voice commands. I know when he's stiff too, and we only go for a gentle walk, until he shows me that he's ready for more.
We always finish up out in the field- either the main hay field, or the side field where we can do a nice slalom around the tires protecting the water-line hookups. We wind down, and I do my stretches with the reins on Max's neck, using just my legs to guide him at a walk until we are done. He's on the buckle as we return to the tack shed.
In the fall of 2001 I considered putting Max down. He could no longer eat hay, but was on pelleted food twice a day; he had trouble keeping weight on; he was losing his eyesight. That fall was mild, so it looked like he would make it through the winter, but in February he began to fail. Donna called to say that, even with blankets and warm food, he was standing out in the snowstorm, refusing to eat or come in, but just miserable- so she called the vet to come put him down. Max is now buried there on the ranch where he spent his last years. He was 32.
At this point I am looking for another horse. So far I have mostly been using the Bay Area Equestrian Network to try to find my next companion.
A few years ago, while visiting the Netherlands, I had the great pleasure of riding a Warmblood. In an hour and a half, we hacked through a town, across several farms and through another village, passing by a castle. It was an amazing ride. It was an entirely different type of ride than I'd ever had before, and I want to improve my skills to where I can ride like that on my own horse.
So far I've seen a lot of good horses, and I've come to see how much of my skills I've lost. I last rode Max in September; I need to go back to lessons, to get into shape; I also strive to remember that what I had with Max was the product of a relationship that grew over the years from the fall of 1994, when I first met the 16 hand appy who became a pal like no other.
As you can tell, I miss him terribly.
