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Ace, A Yosemite Horse With Common Sense
EXCERPT FROM Ask Now the Beasts: Our Kinship with Animals Wild and Domestic BY RUTH RUDNER.
"The beauty of a horseback trip is that whatever happens to one of you happens to you both. And there is only what happens. What happens is always in the present moment. The miracle of relationship with a horse, a dog, any animal is the necessity to be present this moment. (Same thing with a person, but it's harder to do. People like to hitch themselves to words. Animals attend to what exists.)"
—Ruth Rudner
Ace and I lead a line of twelve guests on horseback up Pelican Valley on a clear Yellowstone day, a day of crystal air. The water in Pelican Creek sparkles. Sandhill cranes ride the length of the sky, their ululating as primeval as the place. Scattered across the valley, small groups of buffalo graze tall, yellowing grass, the grass barely moving in the calm noon.
Our trail follows the edge between meadow and forest. Grass on both sides of the trail is almost as high as Ace's chest. This is familiar territory to him and he walks comfortably, knowing we will come to camp with good pasture before many more miles have elapsed. The three mules behind us -- Buck, Sis, and Festus -- are just as much at home. All the horses are. I watch the forest for movement -- a grizzly bear, a wolf, a deer. Twice in the past, when a deer appeared out of nowhere as we rode through forest, Ace reared and bolted, reacting to the sudden appearance of a creature erupting into his vision. Twice I had dropped the rope to the mules so that I could freely turn him and calm him and get him back into his place in line. Dropping the rope is not ideal, because the mules can wander off, but it beats getting the rope wrapped around something -- Ace's leg or my arm or any number of other things -- in the mercurial movements of the horse and my own focused attention on getting the situation settled.
Those moments apart, Ace is a good lead horse. He is strong and agile and he knows the Yellowstone trails as intimately as I know the rooms in my house. But horses are' prey animals. In their genes, they are always wary. Unexpected things scare them. So I have learned to watch for those things, to see them first, before Ace does.
That's how it is in my mind -- until this trip. A grizzly appears near the trail and I am not the first to see it. I do not even suspect its presence until Ace simply stops in his tracks, ears up, forward, his whole body alert, like a dog on point. Fifty feet ahead of us, a row of grass moves like a wave from the meadow up to the trail. A two-year-old grizzly emerges from it, crosses the path, and continues toward the forest. He crosses the path without looking at us, as if we were nothing on his morning errands. For an instant, I can see his back as he moves through the grass. I think he might circle back to the trail. I think there might be a Mama Bear somewhere who will follow him through the high grass and across the path. Bears usually stay with their mothers for two years, before setting off on their own. When Ace stops and I hold up my hand, the riders behind me take out binoculars and cameras, but the bear disappears in the grass, so all any of us can see is a line of grass moving until a wind comes up and all the meadow grass moves. I do not see him enter the forest, but when no sow appears, and he does not reappear in a reasonable time, we ride on, although I suggest to the outfitter that perhaps he would like to ride lead for a while.
I am quickly sorry about this momentary lapse into my basic cowardice, because I like it when Ace and I lead. I like the feeling that only the two of us -- and, of course, my mules -- are out there, that we are in wild country on our own and that, between us, we can deal with anything. The grandness of companionship Ace offers me gives me courage. As if the two of us could do anything. All good trail horses offer this. (Other horses do, too, but I don't have experience with hunters and jumpers or other, more civilized horse events.) This companionship with the horse is why a backcountry pack trip is so extraordinary for anyone who gets as involved with the horse she or he rides as with the landscape. You share an adventure. Shared experience -- felt in the rider the same way the horse feels every movement of the riders body, every emotion, every thought in the riders mind, every waft of air and moment of sun -- seems to me deeper than shared words. The horse may or may not understand the word whoa, but he will certainly react to the way you sit. Words used to translate an experience make the experience secondhand, a superficial event. But if things are superficial between you and your horse, at least one of you is in trouble. The beauty of a horseback trip is that whatever happens to one of you happens to you both.
And there is only what happens. What happens is always in the present moment. The miracle of relationship with a horse, a dog, any animal is the necessity to be present this moment. (Same thing with a person, but it's harder to do. People like to hitch themselves to words. Animals attend to what exists.) What Ace and I share is in each moment we share. Wildflower meadows and noon sun; cool streams on a hot day; cold, wet, long rides; cloudbursts; dawn; and all forty-five billion stars of all forty-five billion universes. We have negotiated fast, high streams and eased the mules safely around tight places. We have been tired together, grateful for trail's end. We have shared apples and time and a lot of miles. I know how his muscles and his strength and his awareness feel without a saddle or with. He knows how I ride and what I expect and how I love him. He knows there are places that scare me, and that he does not scare me. I know he can handle the places that scare me. He knows I can handle him. We work well together.
© Copyright 2006, Ruth Rudner, Reprinted with permission
About the Author
Ruth Rudner has written about the American West for many years for the Wall Street Journal's "Leisure & Arts" page. Her other books include Partings, Greetings from Wisdom, Montana, and A Chorus of Buffalo. With her husband, photographer David Muench, she is also the author of Windstone and Our National Parks. Her work has also appeared in the New York Times, USA Weekend, Field & Stream, Vogue, Self, and many other publications. For more information please visit www.ruthrudner.com.
Bruno, a Yosemite Mule With a Stubborn Streak
The following is an excerpt of a letter I sent our family in 2005 about a trip in the High Sierra we took in the summer of 2004. I'd love to hear if you have had a similar experience.
This past summer we thought it would be a great adventure to visit five High Sierra Camps via mule. It sounded perfect. Our clothes and personal gear would be carried by the mules, at night we would stay in a tent, hot breakfast and dinner would be served family style in the mess hall, lunch would be packed for the trail, and all we had to do would be to enjoy the scenery. Of course, we were told to get in a little horseback riding before the trip to get ourselves in shape. We did. The only part of our plans we over-looked was the part that involved mules, specifically the innocent-looking Bruno on the right.
For six days we went on many steep up-and-down trails in mountains, several even more steep than this trail that climbs over the ridge in the back. In fact, four women from South Carolina were in our group of eight, and all were experienced horsewomen and/or owned horses. They had been down the Grand Canyon on mule and said this was the worst trail they’d ever been on. Of course, mules, being what they are, were far more sure-footed than the horses of our husband and wife wranglers, but it took a lot of energy to stay upright and keep my mule from browsing along the way.
Since a mule has more muscles in his neck that I have in my whole body on a good day, pulling his head up once he started eating was impossible. The trick was to jerk the reigns just before he put his head down. But we also were told to give our mules lots of reign while going up or down because that made it easier for the mule to keep his balance. It also allowed the mule’s head to be closer to the ground, which was closer to grass. With little distance to move toward it since the reign was slack, he did more grazing than he would have with a better horsewoman. And Bruno didn’t give a fig if he brushed past a tree and scrapped my knee or even took off my kneecap. Just another tourist. Just another load to bear.
Bob, who’s mule, Angus, was extremely skittish and who admits he’s no horseman, walked about half the way, which could be more than ten miles. At the end of every day we would take a nap before dinner in our cabin, like the one here, and go to bed right after dinner. There being no electricity, there wasn’t much else to do anyway and reading in bed wore out batteries. Was the scenery great? Absolutely. You can’t complain about scenes like this near Vogelsang, the last and highest camp we visited and where it got down to freezing at night. Was it an adventure? You bet your life.
Would we do it again? Not on your life. At least not until they invent a guaranteed anti-aging technique. Such trips are for much younger people, or at least older folks in better shape, than we. I choose to believe that my inability to get Bruno to pay attention to my wishes taught me all the humility I need right now.
© 2005, Arlene Harder, MFT |
