The Horse Trip to Heaven, Hell and Back: Part II - Horse Communities Strengthen Us
Riders have strong communities and bonds. They need it too, since unexpected events and injuries to horse and human alike require help from others. Whether the help you need is to find the right spot on a horse's neck to inject medication without nicking an artery, or an empathetic helpful hand to haul yourself up off the ground and get back on the horse you've just fallen off.
Last month we shared part of our story about our June riding trip to New Mexico, "The Horse Trip to Heaven, Hell and Back." Many of you wrote to, talked with, or e-mailed us to tell us how much you laughed and were itching to read more. Several asked what “monkey nuts” were. It’s peanuts in their shells. Being British and having lived in Texas for over 17 years, I can’t tell if I am speaking Texas English or English English any more.
To catch us all up to the same part in the story, I learned many lessons quickly on our riding trip:
Lesson 1: Carry your own supply of Rescue Remedy, or some other calming agent, at all times. You will undoubtedly need it.
Lesson 2: Don't take the lead when your leaders don't want to under the pretence that their trailers are too long.
Lesson 3: Take monkey nuts on any mountain trip, no matter how good the driver, or you might be tempted to crunch on their hands to ease nervous tension.
Lesson 4: When a riding trip starts in this way, it is a sign of more to come.
Lesson 5: Pitch your tent near chipmunk holes as they serve as ready-made port-a-potties. According to the Forestry Commission notices, when going to the restroom in the wilderness, first dig a hole and then cover it.
Lesson 6: A mule call sounds like a grizzly bear.
Lesson 7: Don't ride near the leader, as you cannot chicken-out.
Lesson 8: Don't go on a mountain riding trip when you do not like mountains, except to look at them. You need to be a "Tough Rider" to do that, not just a "Rough Rider."
While The Tough Riders roamed the mountains, my daughter and I, having taken “The Path of the Chicken,” roamed the campsite. I attempted to make my horse, Ellie, do some work after her big, rearing refusal on a steep incline. I decided to ride her bareback.
Being five foot one inch and a quarter tall, and not athletic, I perform a “mounting dance” every time I have to get on my 15 hand horse on a trail. My patient riding friends have learned that if I get off they are going to have to wait 30 minutes while I find the perfect spot, build my stable rock pile, and proceed to putz around.
So, if you’re wondering how I would manage to get on Ellie bareback on a flat area without my two mounting blocks piled on top of each other, let me share my secret. Let me pre-curse this secret with stating the blindingly obvious: everything was more difficult on that trip to heaven, hell and back. It took 30 minutes and involved a lot of evasion by my horse, as well as biting, and spinning. I had to out-think and out-maneuver my equine “pain in the posterior.” Not being the analytical, engineering type, it took me thirty minutes to find a solution, whilst campers watched me bemusedly. I resorted to climbing on a picnic table while pinning Ellie between a BBQ pit and the picnic table.
Lesson 9: If you’re short and not athletic, get a pony.
In order to recover from the stresses of the morning, I decided to read my book while taking in the stunning landscape of The Santa Fe National Forest. Having had a cup of coffee that day as I brought my French press and good coffee with me, I was suffering from caffeine-induced ADD, worsened by the altitude of 8,000 feet. This triggered my fidgety inability to concentrate, and instead of progressing through my book, I watched other horse riding campers. Maybe I would learn a thing or two.
There was the man with his mules, who came up to the site for a three month period to take people on packing excursions into the million plus acres of wild forest. He had set up a temporary electric fence, which seemed to work for his herd of working mules.
There were the cowboys hauling 10 to 14 horses at a time in their trailers with ease, quickly unloading them and hobbling them in grassy areas while they set up camp. With their quick back and forth, their efficient appraisal of how they would set up camp given that there were no more camping spaces left, and their well-behaved horses (unlike mine) critical thoughts crossed my mind about what I was observing.
I whiled away day one of riding by watching other riders, and I started to relax. Two of our Rough Riders joined us early in the evening on that first day of riding, having started their journey later than the rest of us. Dena’s horse, Whitley, was colicking after having refused to drink on the way, and having become dehydrated. Each Rough Rider took Whitley for a “colic-relieving” walk. One hour passed, and then another. Still, Whitley was not recovering and was declining further. We began to worry more. This colic was not going to be walked out.
Darkness had settled in, and the nearest vet was probably a two hour drive away, down a treacherous mountain road. To get to a working phone would take 30 minutes. The options were limited at the top of the mountain, at the end of the trail. We were literally stuck between a rock and a hard place: do what we could there or make the hair-raising drive to a vet who may not be there late at night anyway.
We found the park ranger, and he confirmed that the possibilities of getting timely help were slim. He did, however, remember that a vet just happened to be camping further up the mountain and that he might have some ideas. Immediately, two Rough Riders volunteered to find the vet on the other campsite. Quizzing everyone in every tent, they found the vet. Pretty miraculous. The vet was pessimistic and without his medical kit, so told the Rough Riders to do what they could, and declined to help given the low odds of success.
What transpired was the best of horse communities coming together. Five minutes after his sobering message, the vet came down to our camp. He assessed the situation, knew that we had one of those one percent cases of severe colic, but decided to do all that he could to help Whitley.
The cowboys, upon whom I had passed judgment, rolled up their sleeves, and in the dark, cold night, created an emergency room in the middle of a grassy knoll. Circling Whitley, the vet asked the cowboys to hold him down so that he could start the treatment process. The Rough Riders created another circle, holding flashlights on the horse, running for whatever the vet needed.
“We need a narrow hose so that we can get oil down him to try to dislodge the obstruction. We need oil,” shouted the vet.
“I have a narrow hose,” replied Laurie and she ran to her trailer.
“We have vegetable oil,” shouted another cowboy.
The cowboys held Whitley and the hose, while the vet administered the treatment. We waited to see if there was an improvement.
“We need more Banamine and Ace. Who has some?” urged the vet. The lead cowboy, in charge of their medical supplies, handed over their entire supply of meds. intended to get them through their long packing trip into the wilderness. As the hours ticked on, their whole supply was used to give Whitley some relief.
“O.k, onto the next phase here,” said the vet. “Has anyone got a large bag? We need to rig up a drip as Whitley is so dehydrated.” Silence. Thinking to problem solve.
“I have a solar shower,” piped up Donna, and ran down the slope to retrieve it.
We watched, with mixed emotions of worry and admiration, and realized that we actually had a lot of useful items amongst our camping supplies – hoses, cutters, more hoses, oil, bags.
Setting up the drip in the dark was difficult, the cowboys acting to restrain Whitley, without proper medicines to fully anaesthetize him into stillness. The cowboys were getting tired, but they did not stop, complain or ask us to hold down the horse.
The vet, clearly instructed the cowboys what he needed them to do, and willingly, they followed his lead. This was true teamwork in action. Holding up the two gallon bag of glucose liquid at different heights to allow the liquid to find its natural path to drip down into Whitley. Adjusting the shunts every time Whitley heaved up and pulled them out. The cowboys and vet worked for strangers, aching, getting cold, and putting their well-being at risk as the horse, put up the fight for his life, and found the will to repeatedly stand up. Each time Whitley jumped up, the vet asked “Is everyone alright? You sure? O.k. good. Stay away from his feet, as he will jump up again. Everyone ready? Let’s go…”
At one point, a cowboy took off his shirt, when it must have been a chilly 50 degrees out, to put under Whitley’s face so that it would not get too scraped up. A Rough Rider went to find her jacket to provide the cowboy warmth. It was gratefully received .
Seven o’clock ticked by. Eight o’ clock, nine o’ clock, ten, eleven, twelve. The vet and cowboys worked. They did not stop to drink when they, too, were dehydrating at altitude. The Rough Riders acted as runners. We all wanted to sleep, and our leg muscles ached from running up and down hill for hours, but we dare not leave. We had to see this through to the end. “I know you are all praying,” said the vet. He was right. Even my young daughter was praying.
Everything that was humanly possible was done for Whitley, up at the top of his mountain emergency room. He looked like he was getting a bit better. 12.15 a.m., and the final step of getting tens of gallons of water into Whitley’s system, was completed. The vet and his cowboys could do no more. It was now up to Whitley.
Dena, in shock, was instructed to sit up with her beloved horse through the night. We all retired, saying very little.
The day started with our horses playing out their nervousness or inexperience in the mountains, and ended with total strangers coming together in community to help the animal that united them all – the noble horse – so strong yet so fragile.
Lesson 10: People are not always what they seem. Even the toughest cowboy will help. As wise people always remind you, “do not judge.”
Lesson 11: With lateral thinking, you can find the resources to get you through intense medical challenges, even at the top of a mountain, in the dead of night.
I did not sleep, worrying for Dena, yet not wanting to get up and sit with her incase I invaded her private time with Whitley.
In the wee hours of the morning, around 4.00 a.m., I was lying awake and heard Dena scream, “Whitley, no!” I dared not move, but I relaxed a little hoping that Whitley had stood up. I drifted into sleep, and at 4.30 a.m. heard hooves and snorting right outside my tent. A horse had come up to our tent. A horse was loose. Perhaps it was Whitley who had sneaked away to eat grass and Dena had fallen asleep.
It was cold. Really cold. I listened intently to check what I was hearing. Indeed, a horse had got loose. What else was going to happen on this trip to heaven, hell and back? I shouted to Ashley and Kate, sleeping within three feet of our tent, as I put on my shoes to go out. Ashley and Kate did not reply, as it turned out, because they had ear plugs in. Fat lot of help they were!
I stood in the field lit by a full moon, and saw not one, but two horses out grazing. Whitley was nowhere in sight. “Horses are loose,” I bellowed again to my trusty tent neighbors. No helpful reply was returned.
I guess I am going to have to make sure that these two horses don’t make a run for it into the million acres of lush wilderness, I thought. As I got closer to the horses, I was able to make out who they were – guess who? Yes, Ellie and her Houdini-buddy, Blaze. They had both managed to push open the heavy metal gate of their corral to get to the green meadow.
I walked up to my Ellie, softly and unthreateningly. She was still ticked off at me and galloped off. I wished that Kate and Ashlea, the real horse women, would come and help. Then I realized that the two horses would probably stay near their familiar herd, so I decided to walk up to Blaze and put her up. She complied beautifully, and as I was standing near the gate, Ellie decided to gallop by within two feet of me, with the metal fence behind me, showing me her butt. I am going to give Ellie away tomorrow, was the thought that went through my mind. She is a black demon! (This is the polite version.)
I breathed in the crisp air to think things through, and decided not to move. I opened the corral gate, Ellie came by and walked in. I tied every lead rope I could get my hands on to make sure that the gate could not be opened again, and went back to bed.
I lay awake listening to the horses to make sure that they were all in. The downside of pitching our tents a long way from the other campers in order to get a glorious valley view, was that we were the de facto security guards for the horses. I listened to every whinny and footfall. Within minutes of putting up Ellie and Blaze, the rest of our herd started to get cold and start vying with each other for the hay that would help them stay warm, and for water. Hooves thumped on each other, competitive ugly whinnies, and lots of chasing ensued.
I was beginning to get grouchy as I had not slept for two whole nights now, and I needed to get up to feed 12 or so horses and get them water, in my pink pajamas. If Ellie is being ugly, I am going to give her away today, I determined. Two could play that tough nut game and the war was on between Ellie and me. Then suddenly, I remembered that more serious issues were at hand, and I, a. needed to go to the restroom – in my bright pink suburban pajamas, and b. needed to find out about Whitley.
As I walked across to the restrooms, I shocked a few cowboys in my bright pinks. I didn’t care though. I went down to water the horses, and learned that Whitley had passed. As we got up to make breakfast, The Rough Riders were not saying much: feeling disappointment and sadness for Dena and Whitley. All of our efforts did not pay-off for sweet, good-natured Whitley, who in preparation for the trip, had been the perfect horse on all the exercises and riding we did. He went across bridges, he dragged logs, he conditioned himself going up and down hills – with a willing attitude.
We all spent more time with our horses that morning.
The park ranger came by to check on Whitley, and was sorry to hear that he did not pull through. He told Dena that Whitley had died as close to heaven as he could get at 8,000 feet high in The Santa Fe National Forest. No words can take away a loss, but this insight was indeed true. If every horse, person, or other animal, could die with dignity, in a natural setting rather than in an institutional setting, then maybe death would be a little easier.
The Rough Riders tacked-up to ride. Dena was asleep. I stayed at the campsite as I knew that I did not want to ride. The far distance from medical help and the stark realities of what can happen in an emergency hit me.
Lesson 12: I may not be A Tough Rider, but I could be helpful at a time of loss.
Dena stirred, and with dignity that matched Whitley’s, got on with her day. We were in community and communion, cutting mane and tail to hold onto to a piece of her favorite horse, finding the vet to thank him, finding out how to dispose of Whitley’s body, thanking the cowboys before they trekked off. They refused to let us pay for all the medications we used. It is difficult, with words, to capture the gratitude we felt towards these good people. They did not even let us cook them breakfast.
We drove down the mountain, and after making many calls, Dena found a man who was willing to drive for hours up the mountain to take Whitley away. When Dena asked how much this would cost, so that she could get money for it, the kind man replied, “Whatever you can pay. I will be there at 3.00 today.”
This trip was one miracle after another; and one psychedelic event after another. We finished our chores and headed back up the mountain. The Rough Riders were back, enquiring how Dena was. We circled Whitley, prayed for him and Dena, and my ten year old daughter ran to get her bible. She quickly opened up to a passage that was exactly what we needed to hear at that moment: “Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.” Ecclesiastes, 7:7
The kind man came on time to take Whitley away, and with his seven brothers, they carefully and reverently lifted his body onto the trailer.
We prepared a meal, and talked. A man started chatting with The Rough Riders while they were riding that day. Donna asked him to keep an eye out for the lost horse, and proceeded to tell him about the idiot who had turned his horse into bear bate by tying him up, fully tacked, in the forest. “I am the man who tied up my horse,” he retorted. Donna, quick-as -lightning recovered, “Oh no, this was two weeks ago when I came up here.”
At least he was looking for his horse, and had booked locals who knew the forest intimately to search for him too. They parted on good terms. We laughed at Donna’s tale.
The riders planned the ride they would take the next day, our last day of riding. Tex was chosen to be Dena’s horse. She had to ride. Laura decided to take on my Ellie: Ellie would be put through her paces on what turned out to be a long ride.
Fast forwarding to the last evening, when the riders returned at 9.00 p.m.. Kate will tell the story of The Tough Riders’ last ride and their late return to camp, so watch this space.
As we were retiring to sleep, a half-drunk cowgirl shouted at us, “Hey, whose horse is this?” We walk up to look at the horse, knowing that it wasn’t one of ours, but because of the weird events that had transpired on our trip so far, we thought it best to double-check the horse. Maybe Ellie had decided to find a better owner. “It’s got its saddle and bridle on,” she continued.
“It’s not one of ours,” I replied, “but maybe it’s the lost horse.”
“It can’t be,” she uttered.
My daughter piped up, “I think it’s the lost horse.”
“It can’t be,” re-iterated the tipsy cowgirl.
A Rough Rider adamantly proclaimed, “Listen to this little girl. She knows what she’s talking about. Someone get a flashlight, and let’s look to see if this horse has a hole in its back left leg.”
We shone the flashlight and observed the hole in the leg. We were disbelieving. We checked to see if it had hurt its mouth from breaking away from the tree to which it had been tied. Sure enough, it had bloody lips, and was dehydrated. The stumbling cowgirl jubilantly announced, “This is a miracle. This is a miracle. This is the lost horse. Let’s put it up and get some food. This is a miracle.”
The Rough Riders looked at each other shocked. When we first arrived we were disquieted by the story of the horse, lost by his twerp owner. On our last night, the lost horse found safety. The horse used its horse nature to find its way to other horses. The power of nature is a miracle.
Indeed, this was the trip to heaven, hell and back.
To read more about the five hour ride that turned into an 11 hour endurance ride, read Kate’s installment.
