Riding a Horse

Riding a wave was fun to write about so I thought I'd try writing about riding a horse.

Of course I'm not talking about riding a race horse. Those are huge, and I am now, and have been since adolescence, twice the weight, or more, of a jockey. I'm talking about riding a pony. Comfortable-to-ride work horses are ponies. Cowboys rode ponies in the movies, and most likely in real life. I never rode a horse in Texas, and I don't want to run afoul of Texas horse mores and fashion. I'm talking simply ol' Australia, the South of France, where, believe it or not there are, or used to be recently, wild horses, protected, and California. Tall horses are beautiful, but absolutely no fun to ride.

I believe horses were not native to the Americas, nor to Australia. The Spaniards introduced horses to the Americas, beginning in 1521 or a bit earlier, and the British introduced horses to Australia. The North American, Native Americans rode descendents of those Spanish military ponies. Even in Australia there was a Spanish influence; commonly used, even today, is the 'Spanish bit' a typically cruel mouth piece that tortures the horse with a bend in the mouth piece, and a small chain under the bottom jaw. Purpose: to deal with a horse that learns to hold the bit between it's teeth as a way to resist rider commands.

The only time I can remember being thrown by a horse was off a Shetland Pony, an almost miniature horse, when I was about ten, or younger. That animal was mean! Acquired for children's use but soon gotten rid of. How I hurt! both in pride and butt. The little beast ran straight for home and was found standing, waiting to be fed again.

The Australian work horses I rode, Taffy, Tommy, and Donny, and others, ponies all, were a pure joy to ride: soft moving, going to a canter right off avoiding an annoying trot, they had incredible endurance even in blazing noonday sun, and a friendly disposition. With what great joy I remember one or another of those horses rubbing their nose up and down my front or back to both relieve an itch, and to be affectionate. Horses talk. Out of respect, and love, and from practicality, I was taught to walk, leading the horse, to give the animal a rest. The land on which I mostly rode was hilly. Marino sheep are raised for wool in Australia on land that surprisingly resembles land in Spain where the Marino sheep originated. The rocky hills grew grass ideal for sheep, and the sheep had to walk long distances to find the grass, another factor which favored the growth of the best wool. The sheep had to be protected from crows (who pecked out the eyes of lambs) and from grass destroying rabbits which (Americans fascinated by bunny rabbits don't like to hear this part) have to be destroyed to protect not only the sheep's source of food, but the land itself. Australia has been deeply scarred by too eager poisoning of trees to allow grass to grow, but at the cost of allowing hideous soil erosion made possible by the absence of soil-binding properties of tree roots.

So, you can see how imperative it has been to breed ponies for Graziers, the men and women who grow the wool for our fine suits and sweaters and other clothing, and for military uniforms. Without that imperative I'd never have been so blessed with many thousands of hours in the company of fine riding horses, soft moving, stong ponies who are so smart, and pretty, and loving.

Barry