PrintMouse darts through the middle, throwing his head, the wind grabbing his mane. Chrome, all knees and hocks, bucks once, twice, and follows.
The two chestnut foals gallop toward Doc, a tall bay gelding, who flattens his ears and lets fly with his hooves. Then his head goes down, back to the tough winter grass—long stalks that wilt at the top and turn brittle near the roots, the season’s last available forage.
Nemo, a yearling with big eyes and a soft brown-bear nose, leaves the safety of his mare and runs briefly after the other two. His mother, Elle, a gentle sorrel, watches him as he trots back to her, then wheels out of the way as Ruthie, an old piebald, heads right for them. The other horses scatter and then pause, heads high, nostrils flaring in the wind. Something has caught Ruthie's attention, and curiosity gets the better of her—she takes a few steps towards the barn and whinnies as we ride out.
Rhiannon and I are on green horses, so we let them stop and eye the others. Bruce leads on a calm, older mare. Today our ride will simply be a long walk, letting these young horses take in their surroundings, letting them find their balance under our weight. The herd congregates near the barn every day around this time. They hope for the wind to scatter the breakfast hay that we carry to the stabled horses. The yearlings are quiet this morning and stay close to their mares. The 2-year-olds are skittish. Pistol, a new arrival, stands on the outside looking in—he hasn’t made any friends at all.
Mouse and Pistol, both quickly approaching their second year, leave the herd and follow us into the woods. Pistol's coat is thick and dark, and when the sun slips through the branches, it seems denser and lighter, and he feels its warmth and takes a breath. He follows our leader-mare, but lazily, each step short and quiet. We’re happy to let him plod along in our company. Mouse loves the feel of the hard earth beneath him, solid and dependable, and he trots ahead wanting to lead. But we have no set path, so Mouse is forced to abandon his position as our scout and instead skirt along the side of us, sometimes trotting, sometimes cutting in and out of the line.
Rhiannon is relaxed and smiling. “These colts are being so good!” she says. These horses have only been ridden six times, and already they are carrying us through the woods.
“They do look good,” I agree. Bruce pats his horse and nods. We started them in the round pen. On our third ride we rode in the arena, and on our fifth ride we went out on the ranch. We still haven’t put a bit in their mouths—we just ride in hackamores.
The horses quickly learn that the mesquite branches bend before them, but the thicker oak branches that are still covered in brown leaves are stiff and will scrape their sides if they force their way through. We come to a gully, about three feet deep with a path through that slopes only gradually—the steep sides worn down by many horses crossing at this point—and Rhiannon’s mount refuses to go on.
Rhiannon gets off and leads him down. His ears are back, and he trots in, but he allows himself to be led. Rhiannon leaves the gully the way she came and enters again. She repeats this four times, until the horse is confident with the exercise, and then she mounts, rides through the gully, and we continue.
We are amazed at the progress of our horses, and we talk some more.
