Page 71 - WTP Vol. XIII #3

ket appaloosa, spindly tail twitching at the horseflies —which I had been disappointed to find also preva- lent, and possibly even larger in South Africa. “That’s Radar. She’s a guide and guest horse. Don’t let the ears fool you.” She slips me a small piece of carrot. “Bribes usually work.”
I stand for a few seconds, watching her weave through the horses, a gentle hand on rumps and shoulders to nudge them from her path. A big gray shoves his face in her chest, and she rubs his neck before moving on. How a person is around horses tells you a lot about them. I should have known it wouldn’t work out with my ex-husband when I real- ized he couldn’t read his horse’s discomfort. A very sensitive and serious horse that did not appreciate being treated like a “good old boy,” the way my ex did. Note to self: Have all future potential boyfriends meet sensitive, serious horses.
Radar is standing on the edge of the herd and does not move when I walk up to her, just gives me a skeptical side eye as I throw the rope over her neck. “You be a good girl?” I ask, letting her smell my hand. I look up to see Leanne leading out a slender pinkish- grey Arabian. His ears are very straight, head high on a long neck, legs making him look taller than he actu- ally is. He looks at me, nostrils flaring, before twitch- ing and skittering on the end of the rope.
I grin at him. “Well, who is this fancy guy?”
Her mouth tilts and she places a hand on his neck, making him shake his head and snort. “This fluttery darling is Fidget.”
“If a horse ever named himself, huh. God I love Arabs. Where’d you get him?”
“Owner donation. He’s a bit of an oddball. He may only be a guide horse, which is fine. We like them to be both, but he’s funny enough and talented enough to keep around.”
Ten minutes later we have the horses tied to the long rail in the shed that serves as the tacking barn. Fidget stomps and shakes his head, the end of the lead rope wiggling between his lips. He catches me watching him and looks back at me with wide, indignant eyes, still chewing his rope.
“He’s cute. But I think he knows it.”
“That’s how they get you.” She reaches under him to grab the girth and brings it up lightly under his belly.
“He wouldn’t be the first cute face I fell for.”
Fidget raises his head when he sees the headstall out of the corner of his eye – his neck extends until his nose waves feet above Leanne’s head. She lightly presses his poll and he drops his head a few inches. “This may take a minute. Best not to rush him. Fidget is a bit histrionic and he likes attention. If you ignore him, he eventually gets bored.”
“Now that is a lesson I wish I’d learned a little bit sooner.” Picking up a leather breast strap, soft with use and frequent conditioning, I loop it under Ra- dar’s neck.
“Eh, the longer you live, the more you see there are lesson to be learned everywhere. However far you are from home, and from things you want to leave behind.”
“What, the opposite side of the world isn’t far enough you mean?” I laugh. “Well, it was this or start running ultras. And I didn’t think I’d had enough trauma for that.”
Leanne gives a breathy chuckle and shakes her head. Fidget heaves a sigh and finally lets her slip the bit in between his teeth. “You big ham,” she tells him.
I give her another look—note the sun-weathered skin of her neck and forearms, and the lean muscles under it. Some would say that I am also sun-scarred and muscled, but there is a difference. The way she car- ries herself like someone who knows how to use their body to every capacity, who trusts it not to let them down. “Oh shit,” I say. “You run ultras, don’t you?”
“Used to.” She shrugs, offers a wry smile. The smile of someone who tries to quit, but knows they never re- ally will. “Maybe still do, it’s been a while.”
“What’s it like?”
“Like secret mid-life crisis therapy meetings. So much solidarity and encouragement. We’re just all out there running towards or from the same sorts of things. It’s all coping—I guess a better way than some. Some- times it’s better than tucking it away.”
I can’t think of anything to add to that. Tucking things away being another of my regrets.
The country is the same and different on horseback. The same tumbling swells stirring with waist-high golden grasses, breaking away into outcrops of rock and scrubby trees with waxy leaves, with thick green creeping up from the creek beds. The eucalyptus makes the air heavy and damp and fragrant in the
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