May 20th — May 26th, 2022
“The key to success is to start before you are ready” — Marie Forleo
(Unlike most of my posts which are family friendly, this one is PG-13 😂 )
Our second morning out, Finley is leery about being saddled, fidgeting in place and threatening to jerk away, especially as I set his horn bags on. A direct result of yesterday’s unsaddling mishap. I lose my grip on the saddle at one point and it goes halfway into the mud, making me curse. On my next try, he stands politely —phew!—and we get saddled up and go!
Finley is bomber with vehicles, but freaked out by a group of women doing yoga in front of a business complex. He just can’t handle the downward-facing dog poses and veers slightly towards traffic.
I try to tell him, “get a grip, man! we all think that stuff’s weird, but we’re not supposed to show it!” He is not reassured.
I’m strategic about our encounters with people. Especially joggers, cyclists. Anyone in motion.
I keep my head on a swivel and carefully maneuver him so he can watch people pass from a distance without being overstimulated. We take our graze breaks, 10 minutes every hour, in places with good vantage points. Aka no blind corners where someone could unexpected fly out like a bird out of a bush.
Two things spook horses: (1) things that move and (2) things that don’t.
All jokes aside, Finley keeps his composure well. I just can’t help but remain proactive, least something catches us off guard. In fact, you could say that there are two things that worry me as a human: (1) things that happen and (2) things that don’t, but that I imagine could. Ahahaha. 🤣
We discover the perfect refuge from the scorching 93° heat: an underpass with grass, shade, and creek access! It’s the total package. I lie against an abandoned PlayStation in the dirt while Finley dozes off.
So far, so good.
When Finley encounters his first motorcycle at a traffic light, he hastily trots a few feet forward but doesn’t overtake me, so we carry on as if nothing happened.
At another intersection, I’m hyperfocused on traffic as cars and semis go whizzing by us. Simmering in barely-concealed anxiety per usual, I’m bracing for our light to blink green when I spin around to see … Finley lying down!
What in the world?!
I am flabbergasted. He sighs as if to say, “Ahhh, don’t mind if I do,” and flops into the dirt beside the sidewalk, just a few feet from the raging highway. Clearly, capitalizing on my distraction. Here I am, so worried on his behalf while he doesn’t have a care in the world!
When the shock wears off, I have a laugh before encouraging him to stand. “Get up, you nut!”
We miss our light.
At our next greenlight, we are halfway thru the pedestrian crosswalk when a car cuts in front of us, blaring their horn. They absolutely lay on it.
BEEEEEEEEEEP!
Finley doesn’t react, but my gut reaction is to get pissed off, anyway, because we have the right-of-way so where the hell do they get the nerve to …. Oh. I see. It’s a large, lively Hispanic family, all smiling and waving hello through their windows at us!
Well, at least now I know Finley isn’t bothered by car horns. 😂 Sweet!
We cover 7-8 miles on Day Two! Double yesterday’s mileage!!
All American Stables are our host extraordinaire for the night. Finley is given a much-deserved bath here. He’s a little squirrelly about the hose at first, but there’s nothing like a hot, sweaty day to reinforce that the hose isn’t an evil viper.
Finley’s then given a pasture with hay and grain while some boarders invite me to join their get-together with pizza! Someone lets me cuddle their baby goats, and offers me snacks and SWAT bug cream, while another person kindly illuminates the area I’m pitching my tent in after dark with their truck’s headlights. Finley also gets to meet the goats, to which he is amicable, even as they try to slip under the fence to get better acquainted.
I’m left reeling at the wonder of chance encounters. A few hours earlier, I was ready to peel over from the 90°F heat, staring dumbly down at my phone, unsure of where to go. I knocked on the door of All American Stables with a hope and a prayer.
Thank you to the whole crew for your incredible hospitality! 😀
The next morning, Finley nickers to me as I approach his pasture. There’s no sweeter sound. He did the same twice yesterday, each time I came into view, even if I only left momentarily to grab something. As we’re tacking up for the day, I notice a peculiar, wavy texture to the fur on his rump. I don’t understand what I’m looking at. I wonder if it’s a reaction to bug bites? My legs are similarly covered in bumps from mosquitos last night. I make a mental note of it, smear SWAT on the spot, and off we go.
Immediately, a passing driver asks if my horse would like some water. Sure! She is elated to hear of my journey and is teeming with questions. She takes us in like family, treating Finley and I both to breakfast. Finley gleefully gobbles down the grain as if it’s not his second serving of the hour, haha. She shows me baby raccoons and possums that she rehabs, a heartwarming sight, and one that reminds me of Penny.
When she sees the strange spot on Finley’s rump, she says “what is that?” Eyebrows furrowed, she reaches forward to touch the spot, as if oblivious to the “do not pet” signs on his saddle bags. All the while, Finley has his head down, preoccupied with grazing her lush, overgrown yard. Ready to be caught off guard. No! I think, but too late — She pokes his butt. Finley jumps, swinging his hindquarters away from her. She startles all the same. I’m shocked, then annoyed, but smother both emotions and apologize for his shyness. A moment later, it is forgotten and we are back to chatting jovially.
When walking through a middle-class, suburban neighborhood, an older European couple tending to their front yard usher me over, saying “Water? Water?” in broken English. I gladly accept a bottle. Delighted, they try to impart an absurdly large, glass bottle of sparkling champagne on me next, thrusting it towards me. “This? This?” I am flattered and amused, but must politely decline.
Later, a middle aged woman rolls up beside me in her car to ask if her daughter in the backseat can pet my horse. I cringe inwardly–I hate this question because I have to say no, I’m sorry, even though I wish more than anything that the answer could be yes, absolutely! I remember all the times as a kid when people would tell me that I couldn’t pet their dogs, and how I thought they were such jerks. When I rush to explain why, and what I’m doing, they look at me skeptically and drive off. One day, things will be different.
Lastly, an older gentleman hollers out from his passenger side window, “Hey! Can I take a picture on top of your horse?” I picture an absolute rodeo in my head and laugh, before apologetically turning him down.
Midday, disaster strikes.
Finley’s lead rope gets stuck around his left rear pastern (ankle) while standing tied. In a panic, he kicks out to dislodge it, but that only puts pressure on his halter. I rush to pull the quick release knot on the rope, but I’m too late. He topples to the ground and lies motionless
I quietly crouch down beside him. He scarcely registers my presence, even as I sit and stroke his forehead consolingly for a few minutes. I know he collapsed on purpose because he realized fighting was futile, a smart move, but it’s still unsettling to see him to so still.
When he finally stands, I notice that his pastern — a term I’m memorizing as I examine it — has been rubbed raw. I’m worried silly about it and immediately video chat with my long riding mentor, Sea, so she can examine the injury. It’s in a poor spot, where the joint flexes and can easily be contaminated with dirt, but the burn itself is superficial. He’s not lame. A bit hesitant in his movements at first, but then he walks and trots normally.
This was a close call, and a wakeup call for me on how, in the blink of an eye, things can go wrong. Seemingly small mistakes can snowball fast. I tied Finley’s rope too long, in a well-meaning but misguided attempt to let him graze while tied.
We pass an industrial park crawling with semis on our way to an overpass. I am nervous about this crossing. It’s a narrow bridge that overlooking Interstate 95.What if a semi comes barring down on us from behind an encounter with a semi when crossing this bridge, until I see a sign stating “vehicles over 4 tons prohibited ahead.” Phew! Finley doesn’t blink on the bridge, even though beneath us 12 lanes of traffic roar to and from New York City.
Voight Farm takes us in with open arms on Night Three, for which I am eternally grateful. A last minute phone call cinches the deal!
This boarding barn is more lively than the last with numerous people crowding the entrance. Upon approach, Finley sees a man hosing his horse at a wash bay and begins to jig towards the opposing lane of the crossroad we’re on. I silently plead at him to stop and, as if in answer, he regains his composure just as we slip into the driveway.
I lead Finley through the throng of people and secure Finley to crossties to untack him. He is cautious but compliant. Immediately, a man needs to pass with his own horse in the narrow barn space. I hesitate — in part, because everything around us is still so new and chaotic and my mind is scrambled. Now it’s Finley turn to say, “ugh, what’s her problem?” as I stand there dumbly for a few seconds before the man instructs me on how to best move out of their way.
I quickly find out that the hustle and bustle is because a group of boarders have just returned from a horse show. Everyone is friendly and welcoming. One girl shows me a trick she taught her horse, where he’ll kiss her for a treat!
After another hose down, Finley gets a dry lot with hay for the evening with sheep for neighbors — good exposure for him — while I’m treated to a real bed in a live-in horse trailer. It has horse-themed blankets, horse-shaped coat hangers.
When I strip off my socks for the first time in two days, I wince. My feet are waterlogged, heels rubbed raw. I shouldn’t have been jumping in puddles without airing out my feet later. Ironic that they would match Finley’s rope burn, a fact I sincerely appreciate. This isn’t the first, and surely won’t be the last time, I share Finley’s pain.
