The Next Ride

Yes. We went to Camanche Reservoir the next day, and the weather was pretty much perfect, in the high sixties with a bit of breeze: that means we were warm and needed no coats in the sun, and didn't sweat too much due to the breeze.

The China Gulch Trail at Camanche winds through cattle pasturage, and the bridle path is wide enough for three horses to go side by side (mostly). That's the good news, along with the beautiful views.

The bad news is that the trail is all gravel and stones, which the horses do not care for underfoot, and all uphill and downhill, which the horses and their aging riders did not especially care for. The stones and gravel bruise the horses' feet at times, in spite of horseshoes, and make the footing going downhill a bit tricky. And the up- and down-hill ...

I can't say how Cathy the Mad Horsewoman and Jerry the Alabama Cowboy felt while riding. They have heavy Western saddles, which may provide them with a bit more support than I have with my lightweight English Wintec -- I definitely have to ride with my legs engaged to maintain balance side to side and back to front. Perhaps I should ask them about that next time. On my part, by the time we were done, my flabby old legs were shaking and screaming at the exertion.

(Now that may sound horrible, but for a life-long horsey junkie like me, it is exactly what your legs long for, and a feeling that fills one's heart with happy-cooties, even while causing one to drag, zombie-like, to set out the picnic lunch afterward.)

The scenery was gorgeous, with weathered stone bluffs in the distance, and the lake glinting improbably blue in the distance (the photos don't do it justice), and the joy of watching our horses' expressions -- it was a wonderful ride. But for me, the best part of the strenuous day was arguing with Dink at every hill, when he wanted to charge ahead in a forging trot, and feeling him eager to keep going on and on to see what else there was to see.

The last time we were at Camanche, I was afraid he was dying.  But he did great this time; in fact he was a bit of an ass, but that's Duquesne all the way. He remembered the gate into the park, and positioned himself flawlessly for me to open it from his back. Only after the gate was closed and his mental "work" was done did he begin prancing and puffing to get on with the ride.

We saw a million woodpeckers, heard meadowlarks, watched buzzards and hawks sail through the sky; three mule deer spooked when they heard us come over a ridge, and big grazing cattle watched us warily. We saw a calf chase a gaggle of geese just for fun.

It's bedtime now, and I am still tired from that ride, my legs and arms still threatening to go on strike or something, even with 24+ hours of rest.

Love it.

WTF Blogger?

I have been working with the 15-minute blocs of writing -- indeed, I have written a movie review, an additional batch of words for the Aser Murder Mystery, and I'm going to count this blog entry, too, when it's done. I didn't try to write yesterday, it being Super Bowl Day, and me being required to advise both Harbaugh brothers on how to coach their teams. A Harbaugh coach's team won the Super Bowl, and I can't say whether or not it was due to my advice. I did what I could.

Nevertheless, I was going to post what I had written for "Murder Mystery" but Blogger, when I copied and pasted the paragraphs from Word, made the text appear in two different types -- annoyingly different types. And today, when I opened Blogger to post a new bit, I'm finding a really, REALLY basic version. WTF?

Is it me, or is it Memorex?

Aside from the blog wreck, I had a great day today. A trail ride through Central Valley orchards with a chatty companion was delightful, although a bit longer than I'd planned for. The chatty companion held forth on orchard irrigation options (flood vs drip) and grower-end problems of farming, and owl-box management. Coolness!

And Dink is improving, gaining some weight back, and has LOTS of energy back.

There, 15 minutes, I'm done.

ZZZZzzzzzzzz.

The Old Horse

My horse, Dink, is 23 years old this year. That's old.

We got him when he was two; a friend of ours had been called out to deal with him -- a breeder of Appaloosa cutting horses said to our friend, "If you can get him out of that paddock and off my property, you can have him -- just don't tell anyone he came from here."

Now why would anyone give up a purebred Appaloosa? Why, because he was smallish, and meaner than pig-tracks. Our friend thought he'd use the colt to breed his mares, and get some quality bloodlines into their offspring, but his wife nixed the idea when she saw the colt, saying, "Not with that little dink, you won't."

In turn, our friend offered Alex the colt, saying if she would get him cut, (castrated) she could have him.

And she did. With a nod to our friend's wife, we called him Little Dink informally, but named him Lord Duquesne. Names matter, they really do. We gave him dignity, and bravery, naming him after an 18th Century fort in Pennsylvania. (And maybe a little double-entendre for fun, as there was a beer called Duquesne back in the day, also.)

Alex gentled that mean colt with skill and intuition; he never bucked, accepting a saddle and rider with willingness and intelligence. We've rarely had to explain anything to Dink twice. Alex finished growing up and got married, and had no time for riding, what with a full-time job and all sorts of adventures that are her province for the telling, and Dink came to me. I did some finessing with rein and heel and leg cues; he brought to the partnership a willingness to carry me and respect for my leadership.

Twenty-one years with this horse.

Since this past summer, he's lost seven inches of girth -- that's the measurement around his chest just behind his legs. I've been ranting about it to the ranch manager since last July, but she kept saying, "Oh, you've been riding more, or maybe it's worms ..."

Last week I went to the pasture to get Dink for a trail ride. His pasture-mate, "Larry" was standing over their hay, and Dink was having to pick for bits underneath the much bigger (and fatter) horse. On the trail ride, up at Lake Camanche, at one point, Dink just ... stopped. Dink doesn't stop. Dink is the intrepid one who will keep on going eagerly into new places -- sometimes too eagerly. He just doesn't stop and stand, resting, unwilling to go forward.

After the ride, I grew a spine, and told the ranch owner I wanted Dink out of pasture and in a paddock until I could see he was all right. He agreed, as there were a couple paddocks open. I bunged Dink into one and gave him some "senior feed."

The next day I went to see him around noon. The ranchers had brought "Larry" up out of pasture into the next paddock (Larry screams and screams if Dink isn't nearby) and I saw that Larry had eaten all his hay -- but Dink was still grazing at his. Duuhhhhhh. Dink is old and not eating fast, and Larry had been chowing down most of their feed.

It's not been a full week yet, but Dink is already looking better. I rode him on an easy trail ride, and in the arena a few days later, and his energy level is already much improved. The ranch manager has agreed with me that Dink should be given extra rations until he fattens up again.

Maybe he will, and maybe he won't. I hope he does, but he is, as I said, 23 years old, which is quite a venerable age for a horse.

I love seeing his head lift quickly, with ears pricked, when he hears me whistle for him and shout, "Duquesne!"

The Morning of the Day She Did It

Last Friday, while I sat in the garage studio with the door open, letting the amazingly cool air into the house, I watched Lillian play on the sidewalks.

It was significant: the day before, while I was out at the reservoir riding the horse, Lil took her bike out ... and began to ride it.

She had a teeny bike years ago, tried it, didn't figure out the dynamic, ignored it. Then this bike, a couple years ago, same thing.

I'm not sure what made her leap out in intuition, but she got her bike out and declared she would learn to ride it. And she did.

On Friday morning, she was wheeling it like a scooter up and down the sidewalk, when suddenly I heard her call, "Hah! Gran, I'm riding my bicycle." And so she was.

A bit later, the little girl from next door popped over, and I heard these beautiful words from Lil: "You want to ride bikes together?"

In the course of their morning zooming, they visited a yard sale down the street. Lil, in red, assists Kendra in securing a purchased plush pig to her handlebars.

Bernie thinks that me helping Lil learn to ride Dink made a difference. I think so; riding without stirrups probably helped her gain that sense of balance she needed. And now, riding the bike will help her learn how to adjust for speed when the horse trots.

Truly amazing, truly wonderful.

A Bee for Me

Oh, the lovely honeybee!

She pollinates flowers, can't you see?

With all the world in which to be,

Why'd the asshole land on me?

It was a beautiful day here, and I wanted to get Dink out and dusted off before we have a riding date with a nervous horsewoman (possibly tomorrow). He was eager to get out in the world, even to the point of reaching out to take the bit into his mouth, a sweet and helpful gesture.

Off we went. Dink was so good and calm that I was able to watch a couple hawks soaring above us, spot a meadowlark and hear its song, and watch a strange dance in the sky between a flock of crows and a huge flock of blackbirds -- it looked like the crows were herding the blackbirds away from their tight formation! The sun was warm, and Dink let me know if he saw any orchard machinery: a tractor, a fungicide sprayer. No worries.

We'd reached the halfway point in our walk-around when I saw that bee boxes had already been delivered to that particular orchard. It was our turning point to head back north along Kincade Road; bee boxes were staged on either side of the road.

I wasn't worried; we pass by bee boxes all the time during almond blossom season, with no mishaps. Only this time, unlike the photo here, the almonds are not yet blooming. Yet the warm temperature (58 or so) had the bees active ... and frantic for sustenance.

As we passed by the boxes (we were on the road, the bee boxes on the edge of the orchard), Dink and I were pummeled by bees zipping back and forth. I felt them hit my arms and face and back, saw Dink toss his head as his nose and forehead were hit. I could feel them land and take off again, but knew my nonchalance had been a mistake.

Dink began to fight the reins, wanting to put his head down and rub the bees off on his leg, which would have made them sting him, and what would he have done, just said, "Hey, no prob" -- no, he'd have either bolted or shied or reared and I would have ended up on the road with a broken old bone and bees on me. I held his head steady with the reins, and he tried to lift a front foot to brush the bees away. Sorry, Dink, no can do! I pressed him forward with my legs, and talked to him. "Just keep on going, Buddy, we're going to be fine, just let's go, let's go, you're doing fine ... "

He switched his hindquarters back and forth, prancing, still trying to get his front legs up to scratch. I sat deep in the saddle, held the reins firm ... and felt a bee land on my head, heard the bee begin buzzing madly. I shook my head much the way Dink was shaking his, but the buzzing only got more frenzied, and I knew what was coming.

While I held Dink steady, the bee snuggled up against my scalp, and cursing in its little bee language, stung the shit out of me.

There was nothing I could do. I had to keep the horse calm and under control.

By the time the bee stopped buzzing -- and died, I presume -- we were out of the craziness, Dink had no more bees clinging to him, and I was able to use my riding crop to flip my hair up, hoping the bee would fall out and take the stinger with her.

Back at the ranch, some half an hour later, I carefully checked for bees on my jacket, the saddle, Dink's flanks before I dismounted. I examined his face -- no beestings. With a quick brushing I turned him back out in the pasture and fled for home, to beg Bernie to comb the bee out of my hair and remove the stinger, which he did with efficiency.

I learned some lessons today:

Stay away from bee boxes if they have no blossoms to occupy the bees.

Wear a hat, not a sun visor. A bee won't get tangled up in a hat.

And finally, if I had shaved my head the way I was wanting to the other day, a bee could have landed on me and taken off, no problem. 

Oh, one last bit of kudos: Dink is one phenomenal horse.

Long in the Tooth

Horse's teeth don't get cavities ... unless, I guess, their owners feed them candy bars all their lives ... but they do get oddly-shaped as the horse ages.

Horse teeth never really stop growing but their constant grazing wears their teeth down unevenly. In the wild, an older horse's teeth become uneven, it begins to have trouble chewing and digesting its food, and subsequently weakens, feeding the carnivore next up the food chain.

In captivity, we have our horses' teeth "floated."

See Diagram One. When one side of the teeth/tooth doesn't grind down on its own, we have the vet come in and reduce the long side so that Horse's teeth meet efficiently again.

The picture is a rendition of not MY horse's tooth, but of a tooth I saw extracted from a mare whose teeth were "floated" the same day the vet came out to do Dink's teeth. The mare had a loose tooth, which the vet pulled out almost with his bare hands. It looked very much like my image -- a low inner side, and a high outer side.

Floating reduces the high side to match the other, as per the red line.

Interesting process: the vet injects the horse with an anesthetic. The horse, in a matter of seconds, begins to look sleepy, and then rearranges his limbs as though he is a sodden drunk. At that point, Horse couldn't give a shit what you want to do with his mouth, which is prime for the vet to bring out his power files and saw/file down those crags of tooth.

Horses have no nerves to their teeth, so the noise of the drill/rasp might annoy them, but they're in no pain.

Dink had no loose teeth, and his teeth were not in too bad a shape. But this was a necessary maintenance operation, and I must say that in subsequent days, I took pleasure in hearing his teeth grind properly as he snarfed his food. It's a sound that I should have missed months before, and just didn't. But I know it now, and won't overlook it again.

There is no post-operative trauma with this procedure, and the next morning, Dink was raring to go.

He yawns after we ride ... I wonder if he is as tired as I am?

The Much-Improved Horse

This morning, when I finally dragged my weary body to the ranch, Dink jerked his head up at my approach and walked quickly to me.

He shoved his head into the halter I held out, and walked briskly with me to the tack area. There he shifted from foot to foot until I sprayed him with fly spray, and then offered to give me a little bitey-witey when I was within reach.

Back to his old self.

His dapper demeanor dissipated most of my weariness, and in minutes we were headed out the gate. Today, he really took close notice of everything: a farmer inspecting his sprinklers in the orchards, a kid on a quad, a horde of crows congregating for mischief. His pace was back to his usual soldier march, and we even trotted for a while, with lots of enthusiasm in his step.

On the way home, my hat blew off onto the road. Dink didn't care, seeing it fly off behind him. And he was perfect as I bent down from the saddle and picked the hat up with the tip of my riding crop ... which I appreciated because getting up in the saddle is a major effort these days. What a good horse.

When we were done, I gave him a dose of SandClear and a few cups of sweet feed. He gobbled avidly, which is just what I wanted to see. Dink with no appetite is definitely ill.

I did note, however, that when he was eating the feed, bits of it were falling from his mouth. That probably means that his teeth need to be floated -- filed down so that he can chew evenly. Wonderful, a whopping vet bill. Still, it beats the hell out of having a vet come out because he's sick.

Thank God for his great improvement.

Two Days in a Row?

Whew! If I thought I was tired last night after the two-hour ride, I was wrong.

I pried myself from bed this morning at 7am to try to wake up enough to be out at the ranch again at 8:30. I took vitamins, I drank tea, I ate breakfast. I got out there by 8:40, without a spark of enthusiasm.

My horse was okay overnight, thank God. He'd taken a poop just before I got there, and he was eager to go out and DO something. But oh, when I sat in the saddle, I was all too aware of where I was sore.

Nevertheless, Cathy the Mad Horsewoman and I set off on our aged mounts, and again, rode for two hours. Both horses were calm, and maybe a little draggy, until we hit an orchard where the verges (You should never go straight through an orchard -- it pisses the farmers off something terrible) were five inch deep muck from having received irrigation water the night before. The horses switched from shuffling lazily along to having to watch their footing, and Cathy the Mad and I had to switch from just sitting there to watching carefully and guiding the horses to the firmest possible footing. (A horse who thinks he might get mired begins to leap and lunge to get out of it, which could be disastrous for two old ladies.)

Cathy confessed when we got back on dry orchard road that her palms were sweating; the horses had decided that they'd had enough adventure and were ready to go home; my rear end still hurt, but we all had to agree to go the remainder of the hour and a half. On we went.

The morning was cool and gently breezy, the horses calm, the roads clear of machinery or commotion. It was a good ride. At the end of it, Dink even took a few swipes at eating the mulberry tree near the tack room -- a good sign. When I walked him toward his pasture-paddock, he dragged me to the side to crop the thick green grass of the ranch owner's yard -- another good sign. And when I put him into the pasture, he called again for the other horses, but then began to eat the food we'd left for him the night before.

I oozed home, ate lunch, worked a little on the Press, and now can't wait for bedtime. I went to the store to buy some "sweet feed" for Dink, and some "SandClear." The SandClear won't clear him of me, but if he's got dirt in his gut making him colicky, it'll drag some of that junk out. I'll try to dose him with it tomorrow.

And do another ride, but it's not going to be another two hour jaunt.

Well, unless I wake up and feel ten years younger tomorrow.

Which is unlikely, as I feel as though if a bunch of ancient Egyptian embalmers showed up outside the bedroom window, I'd just roll over and say, "Go for it."

First Ride in Three Months

The time of dried grasses is here.

This evening, for the first time since January 26th, I went for a ride on my trusty steed, Duquesne.

Before I attempted to saddle him, however, I let him go out to the big arena and do what he would. He would, and did, go thundering through the gate, bucked several times, galloped to the far end of the arena, and had a good roll in the dusty soil. When he arose from his dust bath, he bucked some more.

When he stopped by a fence to see if any of the mares were out, I stepped into the arena and began walking toward him. This is The Game. I pretend I'm going to catch him ( I shake the lead rope and shout, "Gonna catchoo!") and he pretends he is too wild to catch, racing across the arena in flight with his tail in the air. Meanwhile, I begin the trudge back across the arena to "catch" him. Back and forth, back and forth. The Game limbers him up and allows him to express his "sense of humor" and limbers me up for the ride.

After a few snorting, galloping passes, he stopped and looked at me. "Are you done?" I asked him. "Come on, let's go."

He knew what I meant, and began walking towards me, with an agreeable posture and friendly ears. I clipped the lead rope to his halter and we walked calmly to the saddling area.

The Little Duke is not a plug. He's a feisty, opinionated, bossy mischief-maker. To have him walk willingly to me (unbribed -- I carry no treats) fills my heart with feelings that I don't know how to describe. I'm grateful for his existence, amazed at how good a horse he is, and in awe -- and humbled -- by his willingness to submit to being dominated by a rider.

The ride itself was good, although the Stinky Dink did prance on the way back after he heard the feed truck taking hay around to the paddocks. Just a little, but enough to leave me with trembly legs and arms when we were done.

Tomorrow I'll know whether or not riding was a good idea. But for tonight, I'm happy with the image of my horse walking to put his head in my hands, happy to be my partner.

The Good Horse

Just the other day I came across pictures from the Pre-Digital days, and found this one of my friend Cathy and her horse Rusty, and Dink and me. We had wickedly ridden from the ranch into town and onto my front lawn. Bernie brought us glasses of ice water; the 2 1/2 hours of riding along orchard roads had left us parched.

Taken in April of 2003, the picture shows that neither Dink nor I have changed our looks much, although I don't have that shaggy blond mane any more.

I was out at the ranch to ride Dink this morning; he was eager to get out and be the horse.

I've been a pig lately, and haven't been riding much. I don't know why, unless it's sheer laziness. Inertia. By the time I read the morning comics and look at email, I think I should go to the store or play a couple games of Spider Solitaire, or do something repellent like clean up the kitchen. And when a rider is a pig, and stops riding regularly, bad things can happen. The horse may decide that he has retired from being a mount and refuse to go anywhere, or the horse may give the lazy rider a really hard time, which only makes it more miserable to want to go ride.

When I approached Dink's paddock, I saw that a bunch of fillies had been let loose in the paddock area to play. I shooed them into a paddock, and went to get Dink's halter and lead rope. When I rounded the corner, he called to me to come back. Awww. Any thought I had about just turning him out into the arena to walk around left my mind.

He draped his head over the fence for me to put the halter on him, and when I took him across the road so that I could step from the bank right onto the saddle, he stepped down into the lower area and stood like a statue without me even asking. We set off, and he was so thrilled to be going out that he broke into a little jog as we turned east toward the orchards.

No bucks, no conniptions, no reluctance. He was as perfect as if I had been riding him every day.

He's a genius. Halfway down the orchard road, there was a hole with a bunch of stakes in it, and each stake had long, brightly-colored plastic ribbon on it. The breeze lifted the ribbons and made them wave. To a horse, such a sight is exactly equal to seeing Medusa raise her head and let her hair-snakes all wave around. I wondered if I would have to dismount and lead Dink past -- my first horse would have been snorting and fighting to run away as soon as he saw the Monster Ribbons. I began counting out loud, both so that Dink would hear my voice, and so that I would focus on the count rather than tensing up my legs. (That would convince the horse I was afraid of the ribbons, too.)

He stopped and stared at the floating ribbons, then went on when I told him to walk forward. He stopped again a little closer, and we watched. And then, though he kept an eye on the Medusa, he walked on by. When we saw another batch of ribbon-stakes on another road, he never even twitched.

This gave me pause for thought. What would I have to pay to get another horse like him? He doesn't buck, doesn't kick, doesn't bolt or balk; unlike many horses, he can be ridden out on a trail by himself with no problem. Riding out with other horses, he's a gentleman. He's got a really comfortable gait for me. He's in good health. He has a great personality, too. And he's a handsome little fellow.

Good, good horse. Priceless little horse.

Almonds and Riding

The weather continues to be perfect for almond blossom pollination.

The afternoon temperatures are in the mid- to high sixties, giving the bees a long warm stretch during the day to be active.

I did go riding on Thursday, and had a safe and pleasant ride, though I felt a bit stiff throwing my leg across the saddle.

Friday I was really sore, in spite of taking valerian before I went to bed. Sore legs? No, not much. Sore hand!

You see, Dink is shedding. It's that time of year, for horses to get rid of their shaggy fur and uncover the glossy summer coat. So I used the shedding blade on Dink, and got a ton of white and roany hair scattered about on the ground. Then I used the deeply toothed curry, that charmingly makes round waffle-like patties of hair and added lots more hair to the ground. Then I used the shedding blade again to take away more hair loosened but not picked up by the big curry. Then it was time to use the small curry. Finally I was able to use the stiff-bristled brush, and then it was time for the softer brush.

I made the mistake of putting lip balm on my lips before I went out to the ranch. I probably had enough horsehair sticking to my face that I could have passed for Santa Claus.

But it was a good ride, though we kept it short.

If there's any sweeter time of year to be riding, I'd be hard put to think of it.