View From the Cheap Seats

Yet Another Exciting, Death-Defying Adventure of A Middle-Aged Equestrian! (Part 2)

by Sarah Vas

When last we gathered, I was on a muddy hillside astride a fat summer camp pony. The cranky redhead mare was taking aim with both hind feet at said fat pony, prompting her to wedge herself between two saplings off trail. Dramatic radio music fades…

In the midst of this chaos, I dismounted, gained control of both horses from the ground, and talked the frightened yoga camper down off the red horse. I managed to hold the snarky mare while getting my camp cohort mounted up on the solid citizen I had been riding. I downplayed the moment and pointed her horse up the slippery slope. Then, I gathered the reins and swung up onto the chestnut mare. The trail guide teenager wondered out loud why a camper was riding my new charge. That mare was reserved for staff only because she basically hates every other horse in the barn, both on trail and in the pastures!

For the remainder of the ride, I extended olive branches to the sour faced mare. It wasn’t her fault. First of all, deer flies were consuming her ears. I shooed them and rubbed her topknot as much as I could. Secondly, her incessant nose rooting was caused by a dangling bit stuck under her tongue. I snuck her bridle up one hole, doubting the staff would even notice. Lastly, she was tolerating this summer occupation, wearing poorly fitted, cheap gear while lugging dead weight up and down the forest hillside as the camp schedule demanded. I didn’t hassle her but rather, just steadied my weight and kept up the ear rubbing and wither scratching. She softened her body here and there to my polite requests from leg, seat, and weight shifts. My goal was just to get her back to the barn without

We Tip Our Caps to the Summer Camp Gangs!

“What Adventures We Had!” , said the Starry-Eyed Child to the Benevolent Steed.

The Bold ones

the Ground Pounders and the Old ones

and the Good All Arounders.

Winfield Farm & Forge, Ltd.

Exploring the Arabian/Welsh Sport Pony Cross for Carriage & Dressage Kevin & Sarah Vas / Owners, Breeders, Artisans Grafton, Ohio / 330-242-3440

further tantrums and that, she did.

By the final descent into the stable yard, she was moderately cajoled. We’d avoided bloodshed. I beelined for the (very!) young barn manager to explain, insisting her trail guides had done nothing wrong. I was glad it happened to me as my experience helped deescalate the situation. Red-headed Rosie, as it were, was unceremoniously drug off to a tie stall for a snack and a time out. She’d guaranteed her exclusion from the Girl Scouts’ special rendezvous with magical unicorns after lunch, I gathered.

My pal had been near the front of the line on a tall, saintly gelding. She missed the whole thing. Not truly grasping the gravity of what’d happened, she eagerly volunteered us both for another whirl around the woods. Oddly, I felt owed a peaceful ride and didn’t protest. This time, I was handed the reins to a bay mare. This horse had gone on the first ride ahead of mine by three or four horses, depending on whether you’re counting from the horse I started with or the one I got on trade. She wasn’t as snarky as the chestnut mare I basically just schooled pro bono. She had been flattening ears in fair warning at the horse behind her, I’d noticed. The sunken eyed teenager from Camp YUWannaComeHere confirmed that this brown horse didn’t like horses too close behind her. Or in front of her. Or looking at her. Or talking smack about her. Reeeaaaally… I silently snarked while tightening the ridiculously loose girth, then settled my groin into the thinnest leather and pointiest tree I’ve ever experienced from a two-bit western saddle.

Our second ‘Pony Express Run’ was comprised of only seven yoga camp folks in total and two different, very Over It teenage trail guides. I saw over my shoulder that my friend’s horse was being ponied on a lead rope. Oh boy. Another yoga camp participant had joined us but openly shared her childhood trauma. The old ‘I fell off a horse once as a kid’ story. She spent most of the ride stiff legged and clenched jawed, repeatedly sucking all the oxygen out of the surrounding forest if her horse so much as twitched. Eventually, the sulky staffer unclipped the lead from my friend’s horse but repeatedly snarked about staying in single file line. She offered up neither encouragement nor false confidence to our frightened friend. I tossed light hearted smiles and simple directions over my shoulder to her while keeping my own horse well ahead of her. I tried drifting my grumpy bay mare just off to the side of the horse preceding us but Snippy McAttitude admonished me for that, too. Wasn’t I supposed to be keeping horses away from Miss Bad Temper #2 of the day?

But wait, there’s more. This ride had its own eye widening moment. The trail followed alongside a camp gravel road at one point and the tall grass tempted several stomachs in the caravan. A chestnut horse (thankfully a different horse) directly ahead of me hit the brakes, dropped its nose and began greedily grabbing lunch. From behind, I saw the rider lift up his arms. We’d been instructed on the rudimentary basics. Kick to go, pull up on the reins if your horse eats grass. His hands rose well up to shoulder height with unexpected ease and yet, no reaction from the horse he rode in on. Its head was still long gone below him, its only focus was stuffing its pie hole! His body posture illustrated rapid fire processing of confusion, shock, disbelief, and arrived at “Uh Oh”.

The cheap, imported bit had completely disassembled itself and fallen totally out of the horse’s mouth. The bridle was now hanging over the horse’s shoulders with what was left of the bit dangling from the S

cheekpieces. Fortunately, the grass was plentiful and far too tempting. The horse just kept eating as if standing quietly in his pasture back at the barn. I had to choose between keeping Brown Betty, or whatever her name was, even farther away from this pending loose cannon or carefully use my flat eared fuss face as crowd control. I chanced it. Better I deal with one mad horse underneath me than let a bridle-less horse bolt away with this guy, sending our whole crew hell bent for leather.

I strode up casually and parked sidelong in front of the grazing horse. Salty Staff Member #2 left my two friends unattended and rode up in a flying dismount along side the headless wonder. Risky move, kiddo, I thought, as I offered to hold her horse. She tersely declined. OK. Let’s see how you handle this dumpster fire, girlie. Can’t say I can cover for you kiddos over this one. I looked on as her thoughts were now playing out through body posture as well. She held up the broken headgear, enjoying her own trip through disbelief, shock, panic, and frustration. This kid was going to remember her crazy summer camp days forever. I glanced at Yoga Dude. He was wide eyed and clutching cheap rawhide in his useless grip. The horse was wearing nothing but a halter, thankfully standard equipment underneath every bridle at this OK Corral.

To my credit, I held my tongue and my composure while silently willing every horse within my line of sight to Just! Whoa! Let’s maintain the consensus that we all just wanted out of this nightmare alive. Me, Yoga Dude, my two pals, the camp staff kid, the sad, trodden down horses under us. Choosing the only reasonable option on scene, the teenager untangled the mess and unclipped the parrot snaps holding the reins to the junked bit. She hastily clipped the reins to the side rings of the halter without ever allowing Yoga Dude to let go of his end of the reins. Stringing together the most words she’d said in one breath, she assured us that this horse will be fine with just the reins. She threaded the leftover bridle parts over one shoulder, mounted her horse, and nudged us all along. At no point did Yoga Dude think to, nor did Sweaty Faced Teenager offer the option to Get. Down. Off. The. Bridle-less. Horse.

We managed to reach the barn once again with all parties accounted for but this time, I just made haste out of there. My friend had happily enjoyed not one but two trail rides around the woods. Our terrified yoga buddy had faced her fear and didn’t die. Yoga Dude had come out unscathed as well. Why deflate anyone’s reality with detailed explanations of how close they all literally flirted with their lives? Don’t poke the bear, Sarah.

I have great respect for the patient souls, whether horse or human, that can endure this thankless, understaffed, underbudgeted Camp Horse lifestyle. Myself a city girl trapped in this country equine life; I wonder. Do horses talk about summer camp likes it’s an urban myth? Do the herd elders keep youngsters in line with veiled threats of being shipped off to the trail pack lines? Is there any coming back from the summer camp string or is it the horseflesh version of indentured servitude? And if you were me, would you charge the camp training fees for two horses or three when you send them your invoice?

Sarah Vas, a second-generation horsewoman, writes about her decades of adventure and mayhem among several breeds and disciplines, and countless equine educational endeavors both as student and teacher. Sarah owns and operates a continuation of her parents’ original business, Winfield Farm & Forge, Ltd., that which couldn’t currently exist without constant gratitude for Kevin, her very forgiving, ridiculously supportive husband. Together, they are quietly beginning to explore the Farm’s newest chapters, both in and out of the horse world. They are returning to Sarah’s family roots, this time as breeders of Arabian/Welsh Sport Ponies for dressage and carriage while husband and wife indulge their pent up creativity producing a variety of rustic décor and iron work.