Mort, Me and the Upper Rio Grande 50 Miler

The handy-dandy techniques Jenny had shared to slow Mort down had really helped. All the way up to the second he realized we were headed for home. Then all bets were off.

Home may be where the heart is, but for Mort, the horse trailer and some chow would do just fine. He was tired. He was definitely tired of me. Now that he had sensed where we were, he was taking me home and he didn't particularly care what I thought about it.

He began to jig. His bone jarring, 'I'm pissed and tired and you need to LET GO!' jig. How he could keep this up mile after mile when we were both so fried was beyond me.

As his irritation grew, so did his energy. Mort could toss his head with a rapid-fire fury that would break my nose, blacken my eyes or split my lip if he made contact. I knew all this as fact, through unfortunate experience, and had developed the habit of hanging on to my reins with grim concentration, riding slightly off center, my weight mostly in one stirrup, and my head safely to the side and out of range.

He responded to the uncomfortable shift in my weight by performing a gorgeous half-pass, one I could only wish to achieve on purpose, and threw in lots of tail snapping and growling for dramatic effect. he could keep at it for miles.

"That's some noise coming out of your gelding," Jenny said.

"It can get worse," was all I had to offer.

The horrible sound emitting from my horse was more like a roar than a growl. It came up through his chest and could terrify the horses I rode with, dogs, coyotes, small children, old ladies and to a certain extent, me. It was usually accompanied with bared teeth and incredible amounts of thick, ropey slobber, slung in a good sized circle with every angry shake of his head.

Mort saved his growl for when he had had just about all he could take of me. It was savage and made me very glad I was on his back rather than the ground. I had no doubt in my mind he would eat me alive and spit out my bones, neatly whittled into toothpicks by his gnashing teeth.

Jenny had nothing to offer, she pulled her horse off a ways and watched the show. I tried to hang tough, not lose my temper and just stay with him until we covered the last ten miles of our ride.

I had plenty to keep me occupied. The inside of my knees were killing me. Dark red smears had started appearing on the fenders of my saddle a few hours ago, as they dried they were layered with more blood soaking through my corduroys. It had built up to a thick, greasy black stain I didn't know if I would ever get out of the leather.

At our last vet check, I left Mort in the care of a volunteer and hobbled into the outhouse to check the damage. My thighs were red and covered with angry looking welts along the seam line, which were turning into blisters the closer I got to my knees. But I didn't get a chance to see the mess that had to be covering the tender skin. My cords were welded firmly to the worst of the damage with dried blood. Even the gentlest tug at the fabric sent waves of paining shooting through me. I gave up and pulled my pants back on, gritting my teeth at the scrape of fabric against my mutilated skin.

What was I going to do now? If I showed this mess to anybody I would surely be yanked from the ride. We were almost done, I couldn't bear the thought of Mort not finishing because of my own stupidity. I could see the judgement in peoples eyes, my parents would never let me try again, Karen would hear only weak excuses and I would have failed at yet another attempt to succeed with my horse.

By the time I had collected Mort again I had made up my mind. I wouldn't say a word. I had made it this far and would make it to the end. My cords were navy blue, as long as I stayed in the saddle, nobody would see what was going on. By the time we crossed the finish line I might have figured out how the hell I was going to peel my pants off and doctor my legs.

He realized we had about completed our circle and were close to camp as I pulled myself into the saddle. The next ten miles made the previous forty feel like a day at a 4H play day.

I could smell the blood through the salty sweat that began pouring out of Mort as he ramped up. I knew he was exhausted by the feel of it, thick and slimy between my fingers, but it only made his behavior worse. He was like a six-year-old child after a slumber party, so tired he was becoming hysterical. Every bump and jar of his nonsense shot through my legs, through my neck and made stars of pain explode behind my eyes.

"Janet, are you OK?" Jenny asked.

"Yep, I'm fine, I just wish he'd settle."

She was looking me over with a critical eye, like a buyer at the Calhan livestock auction. I must be showing signs of wear and tear. I took a deep breath, settled in my saddle so I could ease my knees and sucked it up.

"I might be getting a little tired, he's hard on my arms when he's like this."

"Well hang in there, we've got less than an hour."

I let my mind take me away, imagined being back at the barn talking about the beauty of this Southwestern Colorado mountain range. I would have a cool buckle for completing the ride that nobody else would have. Mort and I would have finally done something right. I could smell the trees again, mingled with sharp sour sweat and saddle oil. A breeze cooled the back of my neck and I could hear the steady rhythm of Mort's feet, he was finally walking. I relaxed the death grip on his reins and realized the smile on my dirty face was genuine as we splashed through the last creek crossing and into the line of congratulatory cheers at the finish line with a solid time, right in the middle of the pack. Jenny gave me a high five and Cindy was there, with a big smile and a loud, "Whoo Hoo!"

After we passed our final vet check I took Mort down to the creek and sponged him clean. He snorted at the sharp smell of the peppermint liniment as I rubbed him down, but stood quiet, enjoying it's soothing warmth. I was jealous, I'd use it myself if it wouldn't have burned into my poor legs like a match to gasoline.

Once he was creekside with his nose buried in the grass I eased myself up to my waist in the creek. The icy water ran across my legs and stung when it soaked through my cords. I settled in, welcoming the numbing cold and began to gingerly peel the stiff fabric away from my skin. Next year I would be able to ride alone. Next year I planned on finally having Mort's jigging under control. Next year we were going to place.

Mort snorted at the no-see-ums and I watched him for awhile. He was still looking a little hound gutted, but the gloss was coming up in his coat as he dried and he was relaxed and happy. He had come through in good form.

Next year I wasn't wearing cords.