Shiny Shoes and Carrots - Part II

My cowboy aspirations slowly faded after the shiny-shoes incident. On certain Halloweens, I can remember dressing up as a cowboy, simply because it was an easy costume to put together. But it would be decades before I bought another pair of cowboy boots.

That occasion was the wedding to my first wife, Beth, which took place on the set of the musical Oklahoma!, in the outdoor amphitheatre on Mt. Tamalpais. Everyone was dressed in western outfits and the consensus was that it was a pretty fine "do", as weddings go. We even went riding on our honeymoon, venturing up into the steep hills above Alpine Meadows after a rare June snowstorm.

Four years later, I surprised Beth with an all-day horseback ride from Olema to the Pacific Ocean for her 30th birthday. We rode out through eerie madrone forests, past coastal chaparral and under towering stands of bay trees. The weather and scenery were beautiful, even if my ability to trot successfully was not.

As my undercarriage repeatedly met with the unforgiving saddle, I felt as ithough I was being subjected to torture by some James Bond villain (if you've read Casino Royale, you'll know what I mean). It didn't help that when we got to the beach, both the guide and Beth (an experienced horsewoman), decided it was the ideal spot for a gallop. Apparently, my horse thought so, too. Sensing that I probably couldn't do anything about it, he gleefully took off after his two stable mates, as I held on desperately to the saddle horn. I was still persona non grata when it came to the horse population.

I remarried a couple of years later and it was my new wife, Pat, who gave my daughter, Jessica, her first riding lesson for her 7th birthday. I got her a proper helmet and little boots and she embarked on her own horsey adventure that is still going strong nine years on. At first, I was merely an observer. I drove her to the stable and sat with the other parents as her class practiced their walks and trots, her too-big helmet slipping to a jaunty angle above her brow. But as she grew in size and confidence, I was slowly absorbing knowledge, too.

I learned about trotting "diagonals" and how to see if she was on the right "lead" in the canter. I learned to hold my breath as she slid off the front of her horse when he "refused" a jump; and again when another pony decided to do an impromptu "drop and roll" exercise with her aboard, apparently practicing for the next barn fire. I also learned that my daughter was becoming a competent young horsewoman, whose ability to master a half-ton animal I envied to the bottom of my sneakers. I had long since given up the idea of wearing cowboy boots to the stables.

A couple of years ago, when we switched to the Riverside Equestrian Center, I began to take a more active part in helping her get ready for her lessons. In the interest of saving time, I learned to identify which tack she would need and what order it went on. I now know how to put on a martingale, tighten a cinch, and wrap a horse's fetlocks. I have yet to put a bridle on, as that seems a bit personal, but I do know how it should be adjusted. More significantly, I am learning to be comfortable around horses and how to make them comfortable around me.

This summer, I started taking carrots to some of my favorites in the stable, especially Llandillo, a recent import from Holland, who is a real sweetie. These last couple of weeks, I even befriended Grimm, a large black stallion whose ears always seem to be pinned back. I have been told many times that when a horse's ears are like that, it means he is upset and to stay clear. But in Grimm's case, I was intrigued; he couldn't be that upset all the time. I cautiously offered him a carrot one day and he took it gently from my open palm. He let me stroke his nose. I gave him another piece and he nuzzled me in the chest. Last weekend, I called his name and he came right over to see me, though my daughter warns me not to read too much into the gesture. She claims that there is a particular spot in a horse's surprisingly small brain that is reserved exclusively for recalling the people who bring treats.

In the final analysis, I don't know and I really don't care. While I may not be roping calves in the rodeo any time soon, I now have several horsey friends. And, hopefully, over time, the shiny shoes will be forgotten and I will become known throughout the stable, the county, the state and the world as that pretty cool guy with the carrots.