When I was nine, my family and another family drove to Colorado together for a summer vacation. One day, a handful of us went horseback riding. We arrived at a classic stable catered to tourists. After we paid, we were directed toward the barn. The man working there lounged against a fence, sizing up the horses in the pen, probably deciding which horse to match up with each rider. My mom crossed her arms over the fence and peered out at the herd. I could hear the murmur of talk between the two of them. At some point, Mom requested a certain horse for herself. She had been horse crazy as a kid, owned a few of them during her formative years, was adept at riding, and could spot good physical traits in the animals. She was also a feminist. When the employee told her, “I only give that horse to men,” that sealed it: Mom was determined to get that horse. I don’t know exactly how the discussion went, but she eventually got her way.
One by one, everybody was assigned a horse. When the youngest kid in our group was placed on his saddle, he instantly burst into tears. Like me, it was his first time horseback riding. Eventually everyone calmed down mounted a horse, including the guide, who led us across the street. Once safely on the other side of the street, my horse veered away from the group and began walking down a slope into a ditch. In the mountains of Colorado, this roadside ditch looked more like a ravine. Afraid, I yelled out what was happening. “She won’t go down there,” the guide told me lackadaisically. That seemed to be the cue for my horse to plow straight down into the ditch. We hadn’t even gotten to the trail yet, and already two of us had started bawling. Thankfully, the guide steered his horse over to mine, grabbed the reins, and pulled us to back onto the path.
I assumed the guide would lead our group along the path during the ride, but when we reached the trailhead, he said, “The horses know the way,” and trotted back toward the barn. I wondered if this was normal or if he had sadistic hopes that we’d get lost, or that my mom’s horse would buck her off, or that her horse would set off in an uncontrollable gallop into the woods, plunging down the mountain with Mom still in the saddle. During the ride, Mom’s horse was in front of mine in line, and he did act up, stopping and refusing to budge, or backing up into mine. My most vivid memory is during one of these spells, my mom reached out and snapped a branch off of a pine tree, then repeatedly whapped her horse on the rump with it to try and get him to move. I wondered if she felt a sense of angry victory as our group sauntered back to the barn, or if she wished she had chosen another horse.
On this vacation, my mom “made” my brother and I keep a journal for the first time, thinking that we’d appreciate looking back on it years later. Here is the entire description of the trail ride from my Colorado journal: “My horse’s name was Ribbon.”