The Horsepower Homestead

**This entry is transcribed from my handwritten journal. This entry is from June 2017. It has been too cold to ride this week. So enjoy this entry instead.  The neighbors have this filly. She's cute. Unhandled. They had stuck a halter on her so that they could catch her and left it on all the time. But then they still couldn't catch her. They asked me to halter train her for them. Her name is Lucy. She's almost two. Lucy in the late February 2017 Lucy in the late February 2017, featuring Sonny's ear. It took us a while to earn Lucy's trust. She was out to pasture on 20 acres with a herd of cattle. I had to use some grain to bribe her initially. But she quickly learned that people equal food and scratching and she liked food and scratching.  I was reminded that often, young horses just need quality time. It was easy. I moved slow. I was patient and we practiced a lot. She's come a long way. No more bribes with treats.  For those interested...

Most equestrians when they picture the perfect show horse, they see something bright, flashy. Lots of socks, perhaps a big white blaze. Not me. I think of Precious. Solid brown. The tiniest single speck of white, a penny sized bird catcher spot on her cheek. She was a liver chestnut, brown like a chocolate bar. Only turning the slightest hint of red in the summer sun by mid July. Precious was my favorite lesson horse. She was flawless. Built like an athlete. She'd carry you over anything you pointed her at. Sturdy and fearless. Extremely versatile. She taught me how to jump. She never refused a fence. I also did play-days with her and once did a local pole bending completion with her. I was convinced she could do anything. She wasn't anything special. Very plain to look at. No special blood lines. Not a special breed. Just a simple colored Appendix Quarter horse. But she was special to me. Precious   And now, as an adult re-rider, I wish she was still around. ...

  I didn't show much as a kid. I did one play day type show at a neighboring barn when I was 12. But my first real show wasn't until I was 15 years old. We went to a county level show. My trainer, a few of his other lesson kids, and myself. My parents came along to help. We brought four horses. Barrister, Chesapeake, Precious, and Nip. I was signed up to ride Ches in a Walk-Trot class and Working equitation. She had never been shown before, and needed the experience. Precious, a veteran in the show ring, was my mount for Hunt seat and Hunter. Barrister, also a show veteran, would be in the English Pleasure and my working equitation class as well, ridden by Alex. Nip was doing a few classes for our under 12 years old age group.   The day started off early. We loaded Nip, Barrister, and Precious without a single issue. But then Ches decided that she didn't want to load. We had practiced a million times. She had been trailered in the past. But today, today she di...

It's ironic, jumping was the part of horseback riding that I missed the most when I wasn't riding. But as a teen, when I rode all the time. Jumping was what I used to dread practicing. And when I was first learning, I found it terrifying. The fright factor may have had something to do with the fact that might first jumping experience was less than ideal. When I was about 10 years old, I was riding a pony (yes, I know that was my first mistake) named Sassy. It was bareback day at Horseback riding camp. So there I was sitting up on Sassy, bare back with nothing but a halter and some clip on reins. The teenager that was "instructing" us would lead Sassy around the arena and then another kid would get on. Other, older riders, were practicing trot poles and little cross jumps in the center area of the arena while we took Sassy along the rail. When it was my turn, the teen instructor's phone started ringing. She looked at me, decided I was one of the bigger ki...

I've always had a thing for pintos. Big colorful messes of fur. Some people love them, some people hate them. Some people think they're wild. Some say the ones with blue eyes are crazy. But in my opinion, a good horse is never a bad color. (That's also the name of a great natural horsemanship book by Mark Rashid  if you're ever looking for an easy read but still solid equestrian piece of literature). My first real riding experience as a kid was on a paint. Her name was Sandy, she was an older mare at a horseback riding camp for kids. She was big and a little lazy. My legs were so short I could hardly kick her into a trot, but I did. I thought she was the best thing ever.  Sandy, Circa 1997   The next paint horse that I got myself involved with was Chesapeake. She was a Registered Paint. Her mom was a QH, she was a palomino named Nip. My dad and my brother rode Nip quite frequently. Chesapeake's brother, Ret, also spent some time at our barn prior to ...

My trainer knew a lot of horse people. He had worked with Mark Rashid in his younger years, before moving out of the Western riding circle, away from rodeos and broncos, and into the calmer, smoother world of flatseat and Dressage. I had been a student of Mr. Bee's since I was 10. And one day, during the summer, when I was 16 years old, I was spending nearly everyday at the barn. I had gotten my drivers license a few months before school let out, and I was putting it to good use. Mr. Bee ran a small hippotherapy program, an equestrian therapy program for special needs children. I spent a lot of time helping him with the kids. In return, I rode nearly as much as I desired. Mr. Bee and I had been working with Barrister most of that summer. Barrister had been with us for a year. He was steady, calm, and bomb proof. We had trained him to lay down, so I could put wheelchair bound children on his back without lifting them. Our wheelchair ramp/mounting block was still under construct...

My Trainer took me out to an auction house when I was 15 years old. My dad came too. We were there to help my trainer find a new lesson horse. His mare was getting old, and needed to retire. My trainer was also my coach, my lesson instructor, and a dear family friend. We affectionately called him Mr. Bee, as his last name started with a B, and was challenging to pronounce and spell. There were horses crammed into pens. A small round pen surrounded by bleachers and a single wide trailer served as the office. I wandered the pens, trying to find any good options. And there he was. He looked like a giraffe. In a sea of hides and horses, crammed into pens together, his long red neck extended like a flag pole. His head held high above all the other ranch horses, I swear it felt like he was looking right at me. That's the one. That's the one I want I told Mr. Bee. He nodded. He went into the Auction house office and ten minutes later he came back, paperwork ...