My dad is cantering along next to me. He’s riding a big grumpy gelding, Salvador, and I’m riding Amadeus, a Lipizzaner pony, who is struggling to keep up. The track is easily wide enough for both of us, and the footing is excellent; the rainy days are still ahead. My dad looks at me, and I know he’s going to say something inane. It’s his eyes—bright and curious—that give away his enthusiasm. And he is always is asking the most obvious questions when he is enthused. It drives me crazy.

“If you can’t work for Ian Millar, do you want to stay here over the winter?”

I spur Amadeus on, trying to keep up. “I think I want to get away. I talked to a guy on the phone today who said I could come down and apprentice for him.” Why would I want to stay north for the winter?

“Why don’t you go to England and work for an eventer? Didn’t you have a job offer from William Fox-Pitt?”

I look at my dad. He’s standing lightly in the stirrups, letting the horse roll along smoothly below him. He knows I just finished working for an eventer, two of them actually: David and Karen O’Connor. And I did meet William. We sat down at the Kentucky Rolex Three-Day Event and discussed a chance for me to come over. His stable in Dorset, a county made famous as the setting for novels by Thomas Hardy, sounded nice. It sounded, dash-it-all, marvellous. 

“You remember, Dad. I decided to go to Ian Millar instead. England did sound pretty good though, especially since he said we might go foxhunting. But he’s already hired someone else.”

“You know Tik, if you are serious about three-day eventing, you really should go to England. Badminton and Burghley, the most famous events in the world, are there!”

“But the job isn’t available anymore! And besides, I want to learn to ride Western and learn some more natural horsemanship.” I’ve told him all this already.

“How many horses do you think he has?”

“Fox-Pitt? About 20 probably. But he already has a rider now.” We’re galloping now, I’m leaning over the withers and urging Ammo on. The footfalls of the horses combine to make a steady drum roll beneath us.

“You know,” my dad yells, “All good horse people use the principles from natural horsemanship. You don’t need to specialize in this in order to use body language with horses.”

He’s right. Natural horsemanship reminds me of advertisements I see promoting wholesome food. At what point did we start to advertise things that should simply be expected? Natural horsemanship should be known as horsemanship—a way to communicate what the rider wants in a way the horse understands. Natural horsemanship is for some an end in itself, but for others it’s a means to an end: a way to get a horse to jump into water or teach a stubborn horse to leg yield.

The reason natural horsemanship isn’t more popular with English riders is that so few top competitors use it and pitch it as a valuable tool. But that’s all going to change. In the future, horsemen are going to be learning from all different disciplines. Already Anky van Grunsven is improving her dressage by applying lessons she learned while reining. 

“Come on Dad, I want to get away, see the world. I want to do something different.” Do I have to spell it out?

My dad slows his horse to a trot. “You could always try a show jumper in the states. What about Anne Kursinski?”

I keep my leg on; a slow canter for Amadeus is the same as a fast trot for Salvador. “I just got off the phone with a cowboy in Texas. I want to go there.”

“What?”

“Texas, Dad. Loving, Texas.”

Loving, Texas, is the least populous county in the United States. To be more specific, they reported 67 people during the last U.S. census. They had to close their entire school system in 1972 because their school body had fallen to two. That’s right, Two. The county is flat, sparsely sprinkled with cactus, desert grasses and a couple stands of salt cedars near the river.

In the middle of Loving, Texas, is the Bruce Logan Foundation. That’s where I want to go.

“And how is Texas going to improve your riding?”

“It’s not about my riding. It’s about learning reining, cutting and colt starting.” It’s so hard to put it into words. I want to do something different, something exciting. David O’Connor told me he spent some time riding cutting horses and learning natural horsemanship. He still starts all his horses on-line, and he believes that all horses should learn cross-country questions without a rider first. That way they can learn to think for themselves, and if they make a mistake, they only have themselves to blame.

Ingrid Klimke’s horses all learn piaffe and passage without a rider first. She has a long-lining expert that helps her with that. She said it’s easier for the horse to learn without the rider. Even if you’re the best rider in the world, it’s more natural and fluid for the horse to move without the rider.

“So who is this guy?”

I tell him what I know: “He has a ranch, he spent a few years learning from Pat Parelli and Ronnie Willis, and he starts horses and gives clinics.”

And that is about all I’ve found out about him. How did I hear about him? He was recommended by Jonathan Field, and that counts for a lot with me.

My dad has turned around now and is heading back the way we came. Salvador has his ears pinned back and is raring to go. They start off, and I’m left behind again. I’m thinking about Texas: cutting, reining, colt starting, working cattle.

My dad yells back, “Well, if it’s what you want to do, go for it. I hope you last more than one day.”

Very funny.

I’m going to go buy some cowboy boots.

n the summer of 2008 Tik Maynard came up with a grand plan. He decided to spend a year working for some of the greatest horsemen he could find in different disciplines and writing about his experiences. So far, he has worked for Johann Hinnemann, Ingrid Klimke and David and Karen O’Connor. Although he spent the summer of 2009 at home in Vancouver, B.C., Canada, he’s still working on expanding his equestrian education.