Riding Lessons

On a nondescript Tuesday in October, instead of sitting behind my desk, I was galloping across the Colorado Elk River Valley on a muscular steed, its hoofs thundering below me. In my mind I was sure I did not resemble the graceful horsewoman that I had been trying to become all week. Instead, to the others, I’m sure I looked more like I was on the back of a runaway freight train holding on for dear life. I kept catching air between the horse’s stride, smacking down hard in the leather. Bam! Bam! Bam! I was certain my pelvic bone was going to break against the saddle. With a face incapable of hiding the fact that I was scared out of my mind, I pulled back on the reins and fi nally screeched to a halt. Suddenly, the fear I felt moments ago vanished. I looked back across the long valley that I’d just traversed and something akin to the best feeling on earth rushed up my neck. In a desperate last-ditch effort to de-stress and regroup, I had signed up for a Women’s Yoga and Equine Retreat in Colorado: A whole week away from my hectic city life at the luxurious ­Home Ranch near Steamboat Springs learning to be a cowboy yogi.

I had no idea what a cowboy yogi was, but it sounded alluring and quixotic. I realized I knew very little about horses (except for what I learned in first grade Horse Camp), or yoga for that matter. But I didn’t let that stop me. I was drawn to the retreat by seductive web photos promising pink-kissed Rocky Mountain horizons and confident women riding stallions across rolling meadows. Five days on a real dude ranch—roping and riding. A dude ranch with a gourmet chef and a Relais and Châteaux affiliation made it all the more appealing. Tents and cans of beans over open flame did not play into my I’m-a-horsewoman-at-heart fantasy. The whole thing sounded like the detour I needed from the drudgery of reality.

After a three-hour drive from the airport, I arrived late on the first day and walked into the lodge while the others were finishing dinner. I could tell the women were already bonding and I felt like a nervous kid on my first day at a new school. I introduced myself to a few ladies, but sat alone and ate quietly for the most part. I figured tomorrow’s 7am yoga class would give me a chance to get to know everyone, and retired to my room.

“Sometimes when you stick your finger in the horse’s mouth to put the bit in, doesn’t it feel like a vagina?” said a lithe Annette Bening look-alike. The vagina ­­comment came early and took me by surprise during our first day of Equestrian yoga. The tiny dojo was packed with women from all ages, backgrounds and parts of the country. The Mrs. Beatty clone had posed the question quite loudly to the entire group of strangers about 15 minutes into stretch time. She was from California, which somehow made her inquiry seem more appropriate than if it had slipped from the mouth of an East Coaster. She was beautiful and flexible with spiky wild hair and although I was much younger, her Gumby-esque yoga skills made me feel like a geriatric Tin Man in comparison. As Janice, the cowboy yogi, spent the next two hours taking us through poses and breathing techniques, she made brilliant, strange comparisons between Hatha yoga and horsemanship. An older woman from Hawaii who radiated serenity and said things like, “Breath is life,” and “Be present and release,” Janice had a visceral, immediate calming effect on me. At lunch, I felt more relaxed than I had in months and began to open up and make friends. I soon discovered Anne, a 40-something smart-ass from Virginia who would fast become my partner in crime for the rest of the trip. Tammy Pate, the renowned horsewoman who was leading our ride later, and her lovely teenage daughter were from Montana and had the genuine sweetness only Midwesterners seem to possess. There were eight or nine others—all women who, like me, had come to this pristine spot in nature searching for something. After our midday meal, we changed into riding clothes and went out to the stables for our inaugural lesson.

“Horses tell us who we are,” said Tammy. “We’re the same with horses that we are with people.”

My horse was named Ben. I wondered what he was going to teach me. He was black and beautiful and looked far too accomplished to deal with the likes of me. “Don’t you have an older, slower-looking one?” I asked. Clearly the novice, by then everyone else had already gracefully flung themselves up and onto their saddles. I listened as Tammy convinced me that each horse had been picked specifically to match the rider. So I shut up, took a boost, and found myself sitting high on the back of a thoroughbred for the first time in a long time.

Tammy and Janice led the pack as we sauntered out to the basin at the bottom of the mountain range behind the lodge. Once we were out in the clearing, Tammy took off at a canter across a wide stretch of field. Each of us was supposed to follow suit one at a time. I hung towards the back, gossiping and making jokes with my new funny friend Anne. Soon, it was her turn and then there was just me. The lone ranger. Staring out across the plain. I can do this I can do this I can do this was the mantra in my head. I leaned forward, kicked the horse’s sides and Ben went like a shot. Once he hit his gait at full stride, I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this replaced my earlier chant, and Ben slowed up to a trot without me even touching the reins. That’s strange, I thought.

We stayed out on the range for another hour or so in a pack, learning techniques and getting a chance to see all the unbelievable vistas beyond the ranch.

All week it goes like this—yoga in the morning, time to rest and reflect, and then riding in the afternoon. I found myself growing closer to this place and closer with these women. I know their quirks now. Even the lithe Annette Bening look-alike can’t shock me any longer. She is completely unapologetic about who she is, and I have grown to respect and envy her for that over the last few days. Over luxurious dinners and bottles of smooth, soothing wine we have sat around campfires and lunch tables and shared our lives. All these women love horses. And I soon realize I am beginning to love horses. That is, except on my last day.

We were all out for an afternoon ride and Ben was driving me absolutely nuts. He kept bowing down to stop and eat every few minutes. The ranch hand near me kept urging me to take control. “Yank him up by the reins!” he said. “Show him who’s boss.” I tried and tried, but Ben wasn’t having any of it. “He’s taking advantage of you,” said Tammy. “Give him a swift kick in the ribs!” yelled the burly ranch hand. I kicked him and nothing happened. Ben was still munching away. I could tell Tammy and the ranch hand were as annoyed with me as I was with Ben. I kept muttering, telling him to giddy up when I finally shouted out in utter frustration at their advice, “I don’t want him not to like me!”

Tammy stopped and looked at me and said, “See what I mean about a horse telling us who we are?” And she rode off to let me sit there and soak it up. She was right. Ben had my number. I’m a people pleaser. I couldn’t kick or yell at the horse any more than I kick or yell at work or at my family. I don’t want anyone to dislike me. During the week, most of the other women cried at some epiphany or awareness of themselves, but I was surprised that it was my turn. Tears welled up in my eyes. And although I didn’t sit on top of that steed sobbing, I felt the magnitude of the realization. We’re the same with horses that we are with people.

At that moment, I yanked him up and Ben knew I meant business. I kicked him hard and he took off in a gallop. It was the first time I had a horse up to that kind of a speed and although I was frightened, it was in a magnificent way. When I stopped and felt that rush up my neck, I knew immediately what the sensation was and that it was what I had come here for—pure release. To run wild with the horses. And I had.

­Stephanie Davis is the editor of skirt! Atlanta. She is currently working on a book called The People I No Longer Know. You can reach her at stephanie.davis@skirtatl.com.

~Stephanie Davis