The Horses of My Life - Early Days Part 2

The horse my dad was riding must have been unremarkable. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to remember his part in that adventure. I know he was there. I know he rode with us, but like my horse, his must have been good.
Despite being the biggest horse in the barn, the dark bay was good for me.
I focused on the rhythm of his large gait. The scent of the pine trees filled the warm summer air. The ground had a slight crunch sound with every step as we walked to our destination in perfect bliss.
Careful not to put my hand on the horn of the saddle, I plodded along. Something I had been instructed by my mother since I was old enough to sit a horse. The horn was not a handle I was taught. It was for roping, which I had not yet had a chance in my life to attempt.
It was one of those good rides—the perfect ride for an 8-year-old girl’s first ride out on her own. Fast-paced, exciting memories always feel like the most fun to make. However, the memories I enjoy visiting the most are the quiet ones. This is a quiet and peaceful memory. One that I find a joy to revisit.
My mother, on the other hand, wasn’t blessed with the same peaceful memory. Her experience was much more stressful.
There was a problem with the pony.
He wasn’t a bad pony, just a slow pony.
Slow ponies aren’t always a problem and little did we know that would soon be wishing for a slow pony. At this moment in time, however, it was a challenge.
From what I understand, the challenge came more from my sister.
She wasn’t a bad baby, just a baby.
If you have ever tried to ride with a toddler in front of you in the saddle, then you know. This poses a special challenge all on its own.
From what I remember my mom telling me over the years, her ride was a continuous juggling act. Balancing the young child in front of her in the saddle. Trying to hurry a short-legged pony with an agenda of his own. All while attempting to keep up with the rest of her family and trail guide.
I’m not sure how long it took to get to the cabin. In my mind, it took all day. Eventually, we arrived and to my dismay; we had to return the horses. The trail guide would be back in a week to pick us up.
The cabin was small. It was made of logs that had darkened with the passing of many summers. Knowing what I know now of log cabins, I wonder how old it might have been.
I was disappointed to see the big dark bay go. But my mother assured me that she had made arrangements to use a pony while we were there.
“Find the white pony.” She was told. “He loves kids.”

The first night was a bit of a blur. Camping was always fun but the excitement of being there with the horses dominates my what I can recall. Waking up and finding the white pony was all that was on my mind.
I let myself wander around in a daydream thinking of the lovely rides the white pony and I would have. We could wander the sweetly scented pine forest together. In my mind, the only thing that could ruin this was having to share the pony with my siblings.
The smell of camp coffee was pungent in the air. As soon as we were done breakfast and my parents had their coffee, we got to look for the white pony.
This was fun in itself. Wandering through the dry pine forests, we found several little groups of horses. All of which made up the larger herd that lived on the other side of the fence that bordered the cabin.
There were horses of all sizes and colors. This was the first time I got to hear and see the rainbow of horse colors at the same time. Blacks and bays, dapples and grays. Palominos, pintos, chestnuts. They were all there, except for the white pony.
For what felt like hours, we wandered on foot, halter in hand, in search of the elusive white pony.
Then we found him.