Short story in Autobiography

“MY HURDLE, MY SUCCESS”

By: Steve Rhodes (May/3/2006)

I have to admit that horses are not my favourite animals. The old adage “dangerous at both ends, and uncomfortable in the middle”, summed them up perfectly as far as I was concerned.

So, when it was suggested that we should give up a day's hiking through the rain forest surrounding the lodge we were staying at, in favour of a days horse riding, I was sceptical.

However, my parents insisted that I should give it a go and not let preconceived notions get in the way of a possibly pleasurable new experience.

So I went outside and joined the other riders who were mounting up for the day's fun. My horse was brought up, but just as I moved forward to climb aboard, I noticed something decidedly odd about it. Its eyes were rolling. Then it started to foam at the mouth. I backed off just in time to avoid its thrashing hooves as it flung itself on the ground, rolling around and lashing out at anything in its way until it kicked over the clothes line and tangled itself up in a mass of wire and clothes pegs.

Everyone was aghast, especially myself, as I stood silently contemplating the hideous fate that would have befallen me had I been astride the creature when it had its seizure. It was untangled and led away gasping, but just as I was preparing to shed my riding boots and don the faithful old hiking boots, I was reassured that this was a most unusual occurrence and I shouldn’t let it detract from the pleasures of the day's ride. A replacement mount was led up to the saddling area and I was coerced into reluctantly climbing aboard.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I should have stuck to my guns and gone hiking. Not only was the wretched animal uncomfortable, but it had a foul disposition and hated all the other horses in the group. Every time one would get too close or attempt to overtake him, he’d lash out viciously with his hind legs, sending the horse and its terrified rider scurrying for safety.

He also had a will of his own. Every time the track forked, instead of obediently following the others, he’d set off up the other track and our expedition leader would have to gallop after us and lead us back to the group. The ride was a nightmare.

He sensed that I was terrified and had no control over him, and delighted in making life difficult by veering over to any side of the track that offered a nice low - hanging prickly vine that would unseat me if it got me round the neck. The day developed into a game of nerve warfare, with him shaping up as the clear winner.

Our route took us along narrow trails on the side of sheer rock faces. He’d walk as close to the edge as possible so I was treated to stomach churning views of the abyss that we could well plummet into if he lost his footing.

Consequently I had no appetite for the delicious lunch our expedition leader prepared but was grateful for the break and the opportunity to walk around under my own steam, and iron out some of the aches and pains that were starting to set in. I was even contemplating walking home, but it was pointed out that I‘d never make it back to the lodge on foot before nightfall, and the last thing one wanted was to be wandering around in the forest at night.

So, all too soon, we remounted and set off for home.

If anything, the journey home was worse than the trip out, as he would break into short, sharp gallops every time low-hanging vines occurred along the way in a last desperate attempt to knock me out of the saddle. But I was a wake-up to this trick and stooped low in the saddle, resting my head against his neck for protection, thus forcing him to put his own neck on the line if he wanted to decapitate me.

But then he must have got a whiff of home, and the manger full of oats and chaff and the other delights that were to be his ill-gotten gains for his day's “work.” He broke ranks and took off like a rocket. All I could do was hang on like grim death as we roared through the forest, leaving the others far behind.

We careered out on the road leading to the lodge, and as we approached, I saw to my horror, a stout wooden gate about four feet high blocking our way. It had been open on the way out, but someone must have shut it, in violation of unwritten wilderness rules and regulations that state that you must leave gates the way you find them.

But there was no time to worry about the rights and wrongs of the situation. We were bearing down on the gate at breakneck speed. All I could do was offer up a brief prayer, grit my teeth, and hang on for dear life. In fact I froze in the saddle as we leapt over the gate in a classic show jumping manoeuvre to thunderous rounds of applause from an admiring throng of picnickers.

Back in the saddling paddock, I fell off the horse and hobbled off to our cabin where my father, who had watched my triumphant return in absolute horror, presented me with a small glass of rum.

Despite the pain from a hard day in the saddle and the terrifying memories of the days ride, I felt strangely elated. I had literally jumped one of my life’s major hurdles, and overcome a fear that had prevented me from enjoying what could be, on the right horse, a truly inspirational and exhilarating pastime.

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