Mouse 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.

“Back home, when we started colts, it was always SSHHHHH!” And a finger, like a gun, goes to lips. “We would tip-toe around the horses.”

But here, we say, if the horses are scared of a saddle, a cow or a rope, they are exposed to it again and again, and they become desensitized. The key is the progression, everything in steps, everything calm and measured and without anger or frustration.

We also talk about the herd, which is a tough thing and a beautiful thing and something often misunderstood. When we walk through the herd, Pistol nuzzles our arms. Mouse will linger but not allow himself to be touched. Another horse, if cornered, will kick out. Each horse has a place, and they know the rule: dominate or be dominated. Insecurities aren’t judged but are needed. There’s no equality, no vote, no democracy or constitution in the herd.

If a human is to enter the herd, he or she must find a niche, form a bond, or take charge, for the human is part of the herd as well, even if it’s just a herd of two. The human that wishes to communicate has two choices: to earn respect or to dictate through fear.

My horse wanders to the side, passes through a stand of oaks and suddenly catapults forward. I duck under a branch and lean on the colt’s back. The horse bucks again and again. The others watch, amazed. All the horses’ energy is up, up, up, like steam in a kettle. I loosen the reins and tighten my legs to calm him and urge him forward. Finally he trots off, back hunched and stiff-legged. After a minute he is calm, happy and relaxed; he swings his legs and lowers his head.

The trees thin out, and we make our way into a large field; oaks and mesquite are rare here. Mouse knows this ground well, and he runs ahead. He loves the feel of the open space, moving faster and faster until he realizes he’s left us behind, and he turns. Our young horses are learning. They tense but don’t move as Mouse gallops past, hoping to incite more play. We’re glad he doesn’t, and we breath out with relief just as our horses do. Pistol, meanwhile, has trotted ahead of us a few steps and now looks back. “I’m waiting,” his eyes say.

To be around horses for 2 1/2 decades, a lifetime, and to have never seen a herd is a shame. Imagine if an alien traveller, capable of reasoning, were to enter the office building of PriceWaterhouseCoopers. She would wander (if she could wander) through the grey aisles, peering into the cubicles where she would see people with blank eyes staring at blank screens. She might visit the water-cooler and hear about their weekends: “How about those Whitecaps?” She would visit the loo (if she had to go) and see still more walls and dividers and lonely people. Then she would watch the people leave their office and step into another box to drive home. That reasoning being might then fly home and declare (if she could talk): “I have seen people. I have met them, I spent time with them. And now I know people.”

And what of us? Last year we thought we knew horses, but we have learned so much since then that now we say we truly understand them. And then today, we have seen this herd, we have observed these horses, and so, finally, we tell ourselves: We must surely know horses now.

The sun is high in the sky as we arrive back at the barn, each of us not quite ready to be back, and so we stand by the gate and talk. “Weather’s changing,” one of us says absently, resting a hand on the saddle horn. We watch the herd, the foal following its mare, the 2-year-olds playing. We observe the fillies, the colts, the innocents and the jokers. “Sure is. Wind’s coming from the north now.”

Finally, our hunger gets the best of us. We enter the yard, latch the gate behind us, take the reins over the horses’ heads and lead them to be unsaddled. We look back, Pistol waits at the fence, reluctant to leave, but Mouse misses the herd and is already gone.

In 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, now he’s back on the road expanding his equestrian education.