The last time I mounted a horse, I was just a child of eleven or twelve. My cousin and I went out to our uncle’s field where he kept the horses and they ran wild and free. The horses were broken of course, familiar with a saddle.
We had to first get one of the four-legged beauties over to my dad. He waited there by the truck for us to find our steed. Imagine two tweens running around a field in search for a friendly horse.
One finally relented and sauntered over. He knew what was up, but we’d be light loads. Dad cinched on the saddle and my cousin climbed up.
Off he went…well, okay, my dad actually led him. After a few minutes they circled back. He laughed and scrambled down.
Next it was my turn. I clambered up a top the saddle and off we went. The saddle seemed loose, but what did I know. I was just a kid. We walked a little further up the hillside.
Dad then turned the horse, and the saddle shifted, tumbling me onto the graveled ground. My spine just missed a jagged rock. He fixed the saddle and I climbed back up, but my fear was set. The bruise lasted for a few weeks.
I still love these stately animals; maybe one day I will ride again. But for now, I settle for feeding them apples and giving them a nice little pat on the head should I have the chance.