Mort/Chapter 5

I had been invited to ride with the big girls. Pine Run Ranch was sponsoring a horsemanship clinic for the Pikes Peak Rangerettes. The Rangerettes were the epitome of everything I said I hated, and everything I wanted to be. A drill team of beautiful young women on beautiful horses, they rode in parades, the Pikes Peak or Bust Rodeo and the Denver Stock Show.
They were just about the coolest human beings to ever grace a horse’s back. They had money, clothes, matching tack, and well bred horses that knew how to behave. Gangrenous with envy, I wanted to hate them with every poisoned fiber. The only problem was these weren't your average sissy rich girls. To be a Rangerette you had to be able to ride. Really, really ride.
The drills were performed at a full gallop. Complex, twisting and hair raising. It was hard for me to hate anybody who could ride like they did. I had secretly dreamed of being a Rangerette since the first time I saw them.
A good friend of mine was a Rangerette. Karen was the only one who knew how much I wanted to join them. She knew how little a chance Mort and I stood of ever making the grade. Between his attitude and mine, we were doomed. The Rangerettes were not a club who welcomed social malcontents.
Karen called me when a girl dropped out of their clinic, I was being offered the slot.
“Mom said you can trailer with us. If you do good maybe they’ll make you an affiliate,” she said.
“There’s no point,” I answered.
“How do you know? Maybe Mort will be good.”
“That’s never going to happen and you know it!.”
Even I didn't know why I was so angry. I couldn't douse the brief flicker of hope though. I was sure I would make an ass out of myself, but maybe, just maybe the clinician would think I was worth giving some help.
The morning of the clinic I groomed Mort from one end to the other. I had cleaned all my tack the night before, and desperately tried to find a pair of jeans that weren't six inches too short.
For some reason I could never seem to own a pair of jeans that covered the tops of my boots. Resigned to my geekdom I saddled up Mort and rode him to Karen’s house.
I had come to a truce with Mort by then. He had a huge extended trot. If he stayed there I would stay off his face. If he bolted we would end up in the yank and jerk drama that defined the majority of our life together. If I tried to make him go any slower he would jig, and foam, and growl.
So trot it was. We covered the three miles to Karen’s house in about fifteen minutes. Like I said, it was a big trot. He arrived with most of the stink off him and ready to load. I arrived with the stink on, my shirt dirty and my hair blowing wild.
As we unloaded our horses I couldn't keep the waves of panic that kept pounding me under control. The Rangerettes seemed so together, their horses so perfect. Most of them, including my friend, took lessons at Pine Run, they looked comfortable and relaxed. I didn't belong there.
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” I hissed at Karen.
“Oh shut up, you’ll be fine,” She hissed right back and rode her horse into the shadowy alleyway that led to the arena.
The clinician, Mike Craig, was a local trainer and horse show judge. He started us out by having us walk, trot and lope our horses around the large indoor arena. He stood in the middle of the arena, watching each horse and rider and taking brief notes.
I had never been in an indoor arena, and for all I know neither had Mort. The girls and their horses flashed in and out of the sunlight slanting through cracks in the old wooden walls. They rode along the wall of the arena, quiet and evenly spaced.
Mort and I charged along the inside, his head high, snorting like a freight train. I tried to hold him in, he shook his head and growled deep. I hoped desperately his mouth wouldn't start bleeding, I waited to be pulled aside and thrown out of the clinic.
The clinician called for a whoa. Every horse in the group had stopped and was standing while Mort lugged against me for half the arena. I finally pulled him down. He fretted and pawed, his neck already soaked in sweat.
Then Mike walked over to each girl. He would ask a question, listen intently to the answer, and take a few notes. As he worked his way around the arena I tried to hear what he was saying over the pounding in my ears. No such luck. The closer he came the harder I had to fight the urge to blow out the arena door.
Finally he came to Mort and me. I stared hard at my saddle horn, willing my hands and my horse to stay quiet.
“How are you today?” His voice was deep and calm. I heard no laughter, no judgment at all.
“OK.” I managed.
“What do you need to work most on with your horse?” He asked.
I heard snickers behind me. My face burned as I imagined the eye rolling bitches having a field day with me and my awful horse.
Seriously, did this guy think there was anything I didn't need to work on?
“I don't know how to slow him down,” I managed. “He’s always so scared and mad, I can’t figure out what I’m doing to upset him all the time.”
The clinician thought for a minute.
“For today, I want you to try something. Right here at his wither there is a spot that can help him feel better.”
He had me put my hand on Mort right where his neck joined his withers.
“If you push here when you feel him start to get nervous, it just might calm him down a little.”
“He’s nervous all the time.” I managed to take a quick glimpse at him. I saw kind brown eyes with deep smile lines fanning from the corners.
“Then try this. Every time you feel him speed up, push on his neck there and take a deep breath before you pull. Let’s see what happens.”
“OK.”
I couldn't believe it. He hadn't thrown me out. He hadn't asked why I was there. I never did hear what he was saying to the other girls. All I knew was I had been given something, a nugget of information that offered me not just something to try, but hope for my horse.
As the day wore on I put my new training tip to use. I pushed on Mort’s neck with everything I had. As my timing improved, something short of miraculous happened. Mort started to stop when I pushed on his neck. He began to relax. His ears flicked back and forth more and more as we practiced. I found I could stop him with just a touch of my hand.
For the first time Mort began to wait for me. He walked, trotted and loped, still about fifty miles an hour faster than anybody else, but I didn't have to pull. I couldn't freaking believe it. I could have cared less about those damn Rangerettes. I was figuring out my horse.
The day came to an end and the clinician had a final conversation with us. He went around and said a little to each of us. When he came to Mort and me he stood a minute and absently stroked Mort’s shoulder.
“When we started today,” he began, “I asked each of you what you needed to work on with your horse.
I heard a lot of complaints about headsets and leads, lead changes and neck reining. This young lady here didn't ask any of those things.”
I froze in absolute horror when I realized he was talking about me.
I was so panicked I almost didn't hear what he said next.
“She’s riding the toughest horse in here,” Mike continued, “and I haven’t heard a single complaint out of her all day. She asked me what she could do to help her horse.”
This was getting good. I began to sit up a little straighter.
“She took my advice and has been working on her horse all day. This horse and rider have shown the most improvement of all of you.”
The clinic was over. I was in shock. We took our horses out to the trailer and began to untack.
“He sure liked you.” Karen said.
“I don’t know about that.” I didn't know how to be humble either, I was glowing. More than one of the Rangerettes came by and gave me a “Good job.” A few seemed to actually mean it.
Right before we loaded the horses Mike stopped by for another word.
“You did a good job in there. Why don’t you give me a call. I think a few lessons will get you on the right track.”
“I guess, uh…I don’t know how I’ll get here.” I replied in my best dork mode.
“Maybe you could come out with me sometimes.” Karen offered, whacking me in the ribs with her elbow.
“Make the effort,” Mike said, “You have the makings of a good trainer.”
When the Rangerettes called the next week and offered me a spot on their waiting list, I turned them down. I had better things to do. I was going to learn how to train my horse.