I've always been scared of horses, and with good reason.
When I was ten years old, my parents, brother and I took a road trip through Oregon. It was getting late in the evening and we had been looking for a decent hotel to get some sleep when we happened upon a rustic-looking place set deep in the woods called The Last Resort. It couldn't have been more appropriately named. We all could have slept just about anywhere at that point. We rented a room, cleaned up and quickly fell asleep.
The next morning, the resort was buzzing with activity. I was walking out of the lodge to explore the forest when a gray-haired lady said to me, "Are you going horseback-riding today, son?" I told her I didn't have a horse.
"You don't need your own horse, silly. We provide 'em. All you have to do is go stand in that line over there."
Across a clearing, there were ten or so other boys about my age. Not wanting to admit that I was scared to death of horses, I cheerfully said "okay!" and walked purposefully to the line, as if I rode horses all the time.
My fear of horses began on a trip to Utah a year earlier when I was left in a chain link corral by the "responsible adults" in whose care I had been left. Lost in conversation, they had shut the gate, forgetting entirely that I was still inside. I tried to walk by the monstrous horse nonchalantly but something snapped in its brain and it decided to try to squash me. Before I knew it, I was in a fight for my life, dodging hooves and running around like my ass was on fire. I made it to the gate a few times but couldn’t unlatch the gate fast enough before the horse was on top of me again trying to smash my brains in. Finally, I just ran straight for the fence and climbed over. This was a talent I had already developed while running away from bullies on the playground over the years.
I was assigned a horse, and since I was last in line, I ended up being second to last on the trail, too. The cowboy leading us all seemed nice but he was too far away to ask any questions of, or yell if this horse started trying to kill me, too. The kid behind me was his son and he was very unfriendly. This was work for him, not fun, and I got the distinct feeling that he hated my guts and everybody else there, and would much rather be doing something else.
To make matters worse, instead of taking a bunch of inexperienced city boys on a nice, flat, safe trail, we start climbing higher and higher up the mountain until we had the mountain on one side and a cliff on the other, just like in the movies. In this case, however, there were no handy branches or vines sticking out of the side of the cliff for me to grab onto if I fell off my horse. Nothing but dirt and a lot of jagged rocks on the ground below. I was not enjoying myself.
The horse, probably sensing my fear, kept stopping and the hateful-looking kid behind me kept smacking my horse on the rear end with a switch, which would make it lurch forward, almost snapping my neck. The boy in front of me seemed to be having an equally miserable time, but he had much less patience than me. He kept smacking his horse in the back of the head and yelling, “Move, you stupid idiot!” Of course, his horse didn’t appreciate it and would kick violently occasionally in protest. Being behind him, my horse got kicked in the mouth. It was a vicious cycle. My horse got so tired of getting kicked up the kisser, it would rear up on its hind legs. I managed to hold on and if I’d had a little more confidence with horses, might have even yelled “Hi-Ho Silver!” I had always wanted to do that, actually. However, images kept racing through my mind of the horse falling backward and landing on me, crushing me into a fine powder, which tended to make me a little jittery. Jittery is an understatement, actually. I was on full pucker mode the entire time.
The kicks up the face and the rearing up repeated about twenty times before we started heading down the trail and arrived at more even terrain again. I thanked God for allowing me to live another day, got off the horse and was wobbling away on trembling legs when the trail leader said, “Now don’t go away, boys! Breakfast is ready in the lodge!” We all went inside and sat down. I could use some food to stabilize my nerves. Eggs and pancakes were brought out. I didn’t have much of an appetite after my harrowing experience but my budding male ego was trying not to let on that I had been miserable the entire time. However, my shaking hands gave me away as I poured myself a glass of orange juice and tried to drink, spilling it all over the place. I was a wreck. I looked around but nobody noticed. Another kid at the table who was even smaller than I was looked as pale as a bed sheet. Apparently, even more damage had been done to his nervous system on the hell trail.
I let what was left of my orange juice sit and ate my scrambled eggs. My strength was starting to return but apparently, I was not completely over it because, thinking it was the pancake syrup, I picked up the coffee pot and, expecting it to pour slowly, as syrup does, tipped it over and poured the entire contents over my pancakes and half the table. This time, everybody noticed. Several people who got some in their laps were not happy. While everyone was dabbing at the coffee with their napkins and cursing me under their breath, I wiped my mouth as if I was finished with my breakfast, excused myself and walked away, silently vowing to never ride another horse again if I lived to be a thousand.
I'm still a city slicker but I have confronted my fear of horses several times since that day and had a good time riding less skiddish horses. The problem is I don't ride often enough to ever get good at it and completely shake my fear, and horses can smell fear like cheap cologne.
There is only one experience that I can recall that was worse, and funnier in retrospect, than my first horse ride at The Last Resort. It occurred when a friend and I rented horses and I happened to get a lively, responsive, friendly one for a change. My friend, on the other hand, got a horse that kept stopping every fifty feet or so for no apparent reason. I kept backing up and sprinting past, trying to encourage his horse to run, but it didn't work. He kept kicking the horse's sides, snapping the reins, and yelling obscenities at it. Every few minutes, the horse would look back as if it were going to ask, "Who the hell do you think you are? Kick me again and I'll crush you, puny human."
I told my friend that the horse was starting to look angry. He said, "Oh, am I upsetting the horse? Too bad!" and started kicking it again. The horse looked back again. I told him he really should stop. He kept kicking. Finally, a gutteral sound came from the horse's throat, then it flung its head backwards and the biggest ball of snot I have ever seen hit my friend in the face in a diagonal pattern. "Zot!" Bulls-eye.
He was frozen in horror for a full five seconds, then he let out a disgusted "Aaaaahhhhhgggggg!" The horse let out a whinny that sounded like a laugh. My friend jumped off and tried to wipe it off his face with his hand, but the goo only stuck to his hand and he couldn't flick it away. In desperation, he ran to the river and stuck his face in the water.
He came back as mad as a wet hen and decided to walk the horse back to the stables. I took off alone and had the time of my life riding my horse. It seemed like we were made for each other. For the first time in my life, I was starting to see why people enjoy riding so much.
I got back to the stable about two hours later to find my friend waiting for me with a face as long as his horse's. Then I noticed the rash. Seems he had not only been hit with a king-size loogie, but he was also allergic to horses and didn't know it. To top it all off, he was also hungry, exhausted from pulling his horse the mile or so back to the stable, and covered with about seven layers of dried sweat and dust. I don't think I'll ever see anyone more miserable looking again, or a snotball slung with such deadly accuracy. What I was most happy about, however, was that somebody else had had an even worse horse-riding experience than I did. There's an old saying, "Misery loves company." I hate to admit it, but it's absolutely true.
Author notes
Written November 1st, 2005
In a list
A contest entry
- Funny stories about your experiences on horses by Ragan.
300 points, ended November 2, 2005, 3 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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THis made me laugh so hard....I needed that right about now. I don't even know where to begin. I have had a love for horses since I was little but I am also afraid of them because of a couple bad experiences....My neighbor had an Arabian that wasn't exactly taim and we'll leave it at that. Great story. Quite humorous.
Sharon -
I'm scared of horses too but the weird thing about it is, is that I've never had a horrible or scary experience with one like you have on those one/two occasions. I had the chance to ride one but once I got close to it I just couldn't bring myself to get on it... I couldn't imagine being on such a creature... you have more courage than I, if this happened to me, I wouldn't even look at a horse again
... Love you! 
Sara 
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Thanks, Ragan. I will try again someday, I'm sure. I just don't have many opportunities here in the city. I guess I'll have to create a few. I know I'm missing out so thanks for the encouragement.
Mark -
I liked it!
Good story, Mark -- and you were right about the horse sensing your fear. Pheromones. -
Ah, horses aren't that bad. I love 'em. I actually went horseback riding on Saturday and I think my horse used to be a barell racer. We had a lot in common if he was. I grew up riding and I only had two bad horses, but that's just because they didn't like me or something. I don't know. ANyway, I think one day you'll have a very sweet horse. Trust me. The next horse you ride ( if you change your mind and give it one more try)will be sweet and you'll love it.
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