Run Wild Run Free…

Maybe it was the movie National Velvet staring Elizabeth Taylor that first caught my attention. Possibly the 60’s and early 70’s television programs like Lassie, The Big Valley, The Rifleman or even Bonanza. My dad loved Bonanza. Adam Cartwright, Little Joe and of course Hoss. We tuned in as a family each week. Mark from the Rifleman. Lassie’s Timmy was my hero as we were closer in age in my mind. The shows sparked a love for the West. The rugged outdoors. Adventures. There were no rough riding little girls represented on television but non the less my imagination made it happen.

Imagine I would. I did. Mentally transforming a resting field behind my childhood home into an open prairie. The straw would scrape against my young legs as I ran in grass-stained white Keds believing I was in a place I had never been but felt certain I knew. A field of many acres littered with the remnants of chicken coops offered me everything I needed. Crumbled bricks and chunks of cement intermingled with apple trees. Climbing trees outfitted with forts built by my brother Bob and me. The only tool I had or needed was my imagination.

A riding path and ring would one day be carved out but that would be in a future I was yet to understand. We would own horses one day. One would become my world for many young years.  An ex-police horse named Diamond who was a friend, transport and fellow explorer. A trusted companion that I would ride bareback with just a halter and a lead on some occasions. Makeshift jumps a couple feet high would be added to the blank canvas of hay. Leaving the property Diamond and I would meet up with a neighborhood friend who also owned horses. Off we would go as free as a summer day in July.

Somewhere around 5^th grade my mom arranged for me to take horseback riding lessons at Knowles Farm which soon changed its name Fox Lea Farm. My mother knew how to support my dreams. Also, she understood my energy level required activity. Lots of it. A rambling horse farm located towards the center of Rehoboth, MA. Beautiful rolling acres with veins of trails in several directions. I spent years at this farm.

Mr. Knowles was the owner. His daughter had gone through school with my mom. I am certain that my parents had a level of trust that I would be in good hands. I was. Sort of. Two black Newfoundland dogs obediently followed Mr. Knowles everywhere he went. A tall man of elegant stature sported a herringbone wool flat cap and always smoked a pipe. Cherry tobacco wafted in his wake. A kind gentleman yet reserved. Stately. A true New Englander.

Hunt seat equitation would be the instruction. Not Western. Although I did learn both ultimately. High black riding boots. Tan jodhpurs and a classic black velvet helmet. A navy riding jacket for competitions with a crisp white shirt. I have kept my riding hat with cherished childhood memorabilia. It is stored in a large cardboard moving box that includes my red and white swirl patterned 45 vinyl record case. Everything from my first 45 which was The Fifth Dimension’s Aquarius to the Beatle’s Revolution with Hey Jude on the flip side.

I started by riding a quarter horse named Feather. A white horse sturdy with gray patches. Dependable. As my experience and skills developed, I would ride Feather in horse shows representing the farm. Bareback equitation. Blue ribbons. A good seat I had for either bareback riding or in a saddle. I was very comfortable and confident on Feather.

My instructor was Lynn C. She was high school age or had just recently graduated. Strong, capable and fearless. An incredible rider. Teacher too. Yes, learning to horseback ride was the intent and Hunt Seat Equitation was the goal, but life lessons were taught with each instruction. Trail rides with Lynn were the greatest teacher…

I was a shy kid. Painfully so but scrappy. Somehow Lynn understood something about me that I didn’t even know about myself.  A graceful toughness inhabited the women I rode with. A spirit. There was speed, risk and abandon. Control over a large animal was sometimes merely an illusion. The exhilaration of transitioning from a cantor to a gallop was exquisite…

Mouse. Mousey was a thoroughbred horse at Knowles. A Bay with a black mane and tail. Many hands higher than Feather. Lean and nervous.  A rescued track horse. Scars from Bute injections were noticeable on her once racing legs. Skittish and understandably mistrusting. Easily spooked and unpredictable. We had a lot in common…

After several lessons Lynn felt assured about bringing a couple of her students out on trail rides with her. Confused I was as to why Mouse was selected for me to ride on the trails when most of my instruction had occurred on Feather.  The certainty of a quarter horse was being swapped for the erratic. Was it a nod to my abilities or a test of my fortitude? Putting my tentative fear to the test we would head down the gravel drive towards the woods. Maybe Lynn saw us as the perfect match. Both wanting to be free but fearful of doing so. Quiet and shy with a burning desire to run wild…

At the trailhead we started like an explosive shot. Lynn was off and we were to follow. Riding this thoroughbred through the trails was terrifyingly exhilarating. No time to think beyond the moment but instead to take the fierce ride. Staying on was the task at hand.  Lynn led us through winding narrow silted trails, up and over downed trees and through brooks and rivers. Dust flying. Riders soaring. Frantic and intense. Shifting from half seat to light seat instinctively. Escalating fear soon settled into a primal need to survive. Learning to trust myself in heightened moments of unpredictability was critical. Grateful for the primer that set me up well for embracing rising Cortisol levels and adrenaline surges as the challenges of life took their toll over the many years. A learned skill that kept me cognitively limber and brave…

“Cowgirl Courage isn’t the lack of fear, but the courage to take action in the face of fear.”
― J.H. Lee