I ran into an old friend today and thought about this adventure.

The sun was just rising when she shut the front door and headed to the barn with a hot
mug of coffee cradled in one hand. The red barn stood solid, the loft door still open from the day before. Grass grows along the cement pad in front of the large sliding barn door. It was trampled from her comings and goings the day before. Gravel crunched under her boots.

She whistled to him out in the pasture, scaring a rabbit back under the feed trough. He loped in for his oats and she rubbed his ears as she slipped the halter over his face while he gobbled up his breakfast. Indian was a big-boned brown and white paint with feet so big you could turn them upside-down and eat dinner off of them.

Currying and brushing Indian relaxed them both with rhythmic circles and the sound of her humming. She loved the warmth and smell of Indian, like freshly turned dirt, warm bales of hay and everything earthy. Breathing deep, the worn leathery scent filled her lungs in the tack room and she carried the blanket and saddle, bridle over her shoulder, back to the big horse and tacked him up.

Swigging the last of the now cold coffee, she put the mug on top of the post, bridled Indian, and turning him away from the fence she had him bend his thick neck to both sides, move his feet at her look and then she mounted and did the same from his back. Satisfied that he was focused on her, she let him relax and took in the beautiful morning breathing a prayer of thanks.

Squeezing Indian’s sides, they trotted out of the yard, but once they passed between the house and the Cleary building, she urged him to a canter–his long legs propelled by the muscles in his powerful hindquarters. As always, when he saw the cattle in the south pasture, he veered toward them. “Not today, Bud–no herding.” She laughed and stroked his neck.

As they came to the corner and turned north, she slowed him to a walk. Approaching the Lee Cemetery, she stopped, dismounted and walked at Indian’s shoulder to the archway and gate. She didn’t go in, having nowhere to tie him, but just stood leaning against his immense warm body gazing at the graves. Some were decorated with plastic flowers and some were so old and worn that you couldn’t read the names anymore. They seemed sadly forgotten, and yet this place was restful, beautiful.

Remounted, they trotted to the next corner, turned west and were both lost in the rhythm of his stride and the ease of morning. She turned him into the little group of trees by the rattlesnake pasture just to see what might have bedded down there in the night. Indian danced around like he always did here, acting like those bushes and trees might just get up out of the ground and eat him. She balanced easily on him and brought him around through the trees where he finally settled, “There–it’s not so bad. These ole’ trees won’t bite. Nothin’s here boy, lets git down the road. I’m gettin’ hungry. One of us didn’t get room service this morning.” Indian snorted at her.

At the next corner, she turned him back south–this was a favorite place to ride. She loved the little farmhouse on the west. It was just a plain white house, but the front porch was made for sitting out on and it was surrounded by trees to keep in cool even in the heat that would come later today. She also loved the sound of horse hooves crossing the bridge past the house and just north of the corner heading back to the barn.

A soft swish, swish, swish interrupted her thoughts. She’d noticed Indian’s ears turned back and had wondered what he’d heard. It sounded like a helicopter, but out here? Louder now, she and the horse both twisted around and saw a guy flying a shiny helicopter, the sun reflecting off the metal. He was flying it right down the road toward them. There was a moment of still and then, as if a starter pistol had been shot, Indian took off and the girl flattened herself against his neck, urging him to fly even as his feet churned up the dirt flying up behind them.

She never looked to see if they were ahead, but did notice the rapid flight of the owls who nested under the bridge as they careened over it. The sides of the road were a blur going by them and her heart beat fast in her chest, a smile spread across her face, and her blue eyes sparkled with the rush of speed and freedom.

The corner came suddenly up to meet them, “Whoa now, ease up,” she told him, reinforcing his slow down by driving her seat bones deep into the saddle. Looking up, she waved at the smiling face in the copter when it passed.

They were both winded and sweaty; Indian side-stepped, walk-trotted, and held his head high as if he were in a parade with the crowd cheering. “Did you see that Bud? We won-holy cow, you can move!” She’d let go of his reins and wrapped her arms around his wet neck, laughing with pure elation from the exhilaration of that gallop.

By the time they turned north, back up the farm road, Indian’s walk was calm, his neck muscles relaxed and he was cooling off. At the barn, she threw her right leg over his back and jumped down. After she put the saddle and blanket up, she let Indian play in the cool water from the hose. He loved it when she put the end of the hose in his cheek and water splashed everywhere. Turning him out, she climbed to the top rail and watched him roll.

The big paint trotted out the gate and into the pasture, stopping to graze at the first patch of green grass that appealed to him. She watched him for a while, then walked back to the house looking for some iced-tea and the cool dark of inside. She felt good about the morning’s ride. Indian had come a long way from that gangly colt who didn’t let you touch his ears. Who would ever have thought he’d race a noisy, flying helicopter, and who would ever believe it when she told the story?